"Don't speak so crossly, Thomas," said she, in a subdued voice; "you know I did not mean any harm."
"Bless your little soul! I know you didn't," he exclaimed, giving her a hearty embrace. "It's me that's the brute."
"Indeed, Thomas, you are nothing of the kind," she went on, the cheerful smile once more on her lip.
"I am, Polly; I insist upon being a brute. Ah! you don't know all."
"All what? you alarm me!"
"I wish I dared tell her," thought Bobolink; "I will! I've found a jolly lot of money to-day, Polly."
"How much, Thomas?"
"Shall I tell her? I've a great mind to astonish her weak nerves. How much do you think?" cried he, with a singular expression, which Polly attributed but to one terrible cause, and she turned sadly away. That angered him—for men in such moods are captious about trifles. "I won't tell her," said he; "she doesn't deserve it. Well, then, I've earned a dollar."
"Only a dollar?" replied Polly. "Well, never mind, dear Thomas, we must make it do; and better a dollar earnt, as you have earnt yours, by your own honest industry, than thousands got in any other way."
Somehow Tom fancied that everything she said was meant as so many digs at him, forgetting, in his insane drunkenness, that she must have been ignorant of what had passed. The consequence was, that he became crosser than ever.