“'Tain't that, nuther,” Pole said, eying the red chunks under the fire-logs. “Sally, thar ortn't to be no secret betwixt man an' wife. I had a talk with Cynthia Porter out at the hog-pen jest now about Nelson Floyd, an' the way she talked an' acted worked on me powerful. Seein' the way she feels about her sweetheart started me to thinkin' how awful I'd feel without you. An' with that come the feelin' that, somehow—somehow or other, Sally—me'n' you ain't jest pine-blank the way we used to be, an' I believe thar's a screw loose. I'd liter'ly die ef I didn't have you, an' I've been spittin' in the face o' Providence by the careless way I've been actin'. Now, Sally, I want you jest to set right thar, an' let's forget about them towheads in the next room, an' try an' forget all I've made you suffer fust an' last, an' let's git back—let's git back, Sally, to the old sweetheart-time. I know I'm tough, an' a sorry cuss before God an' man, but I've got the same heart a-beatin' in me to-night that was in me away back on Holly Creek. In this firelight you look as plump an' rosy an' bright-eyed as you did then, an' with that red ribbon at yore neck, an' yore hair down yore back, I feel—well, I feel like gittin' down on my knees an' beggin' you, like I did that time, not to take Jim Felton, but to give me a showin'. I wonder”—Pole's voice broke, and he covered his mouth impulsively with his hand—“I wonder ef it's too late to ax you to give me a chance to prove myself a good husband an' a father to them thar childern.”
“Oh, Pole, stop!” Mrs. Baker cried out, as if in pain. “I won't let you set thar an' run yorese'f down, when you are the best-hearted man in this state. What is a little spree now an' then compared to the lot o' some pore women that git kicked an' cuffed, with never a tender word from the'r husbands. Pole, as the Lord is my judge, I kin honestly say that I—I almost want you jest like you are. Some men don't drink, but they hain't got yore heart an' gentle way, an' ef I had to take my choice over an' over ag'in, I'd choose a man like you every time.”
She rose suddenly, and with a face full of pent-up emotion she left the room. She returned in a moment.
“I thought I heard the baby wakin',” she said.
He caught her hand and pulled her gently down into her chair. “Yo're a liar, Sally,” he said, huskily. “You know yo're a-lyin'. You went out to wipe yore eyes. You didn't want me to see you cry.”
She made no denial, and he put his rough hand, with a reverent touch, on her hair.
“It ain't quite as heavy as it was,” he said. “Nor so fluffy. I reckon that's beca'se you keep it bound up so tight. When I fust tuck a shine to you, you used to run about them old hills as wild as a deer, an' the wind kept it tousled. Do you remember the day it got full o' cockleburs an' I tried to git 'em out? La me! I was all of a tremble. The Lord knows I never thought then that sech a sweet, scared, rosy little thing ud ever keep house fer me an' cook my grub an' be a mother to my childern. I never dreamt, then, that instead o' bein' grateful fer the blessin', I'd go off weeks at a time an' lie in a gutter, leavin' you to walk the floor in agony—sometimes with a nursin' baby an' not a scrap to eat. No, I never—”
“Hush, Pole!” With a sob, half of joy, half of sadness, Mrs. Baker put her hand over his mouth and pressed her face against his. “Hush, hush, hush!”
“But, thank God, I hope that day is over,” he said, taking her hand from his lips. “I've passed through a great crisis, Sally. Some'n' you don't know about—some'n' you may never know about—that happened right here in these mountains, but it may prove to be my turnin'-p'int.”
His wife looked uneasily at the fire. “It's gittin' late, Pole,” she said. “We'd better go to bed.”