Polly looked up in his steady, honest eyes, and rested one hand upon his, and gazed lovingly at him, as he went on—
“My old woman said it was because I’d got a cottage, and an acre of land of my own.”
“Did she say so, Tom?”
“Yes,” he said, taking her hand, patting it, and gazing up in the pretty rustic face he called his own; “but I told her you were a silly little girl, who would have me if I’d got a cottage and an acre less than nothing to call my own.”
“And you told the truth, Tom, dear,” she whispered. “Tom, you make me so happy in believing in me like this.”
“Tut, tut, my girl. I’m not clever; but I knew you.”
“And married me without anything, only enough to buy my wedding dress and a little furniture.”
“D’yer call that nothing?” said the hearty, Saxon-faced young fellow, pointing to the baby; “because I don’t. And I say, Polly, dear,” he whispered, archly, “perhaps that’s only the thin end of the wedge.”
“Hush, Tom, for shame!” she said, trying to frown, and pointing to Budge; while he took a tremendous bite of bread and bacon, and chuckled hugely at his joke.
“The old lady used to have it that you were too fine for me, Polly, and would have been setting your cap at one of the young gentlemen at the rectory when you was abroad with them.”