She laughed as if to humor him, and then she raised her eyes to his. “Pole,” she said, in a cold, hard voice, “don't joke about a thing like that. Somehow I don't believe that men who joke about doin' well, as es ef the like was clean out o' the'r reach, ever do make money; it's them that say what one kin do another kin that make the'r way.”
“But I wasn't jokin', little woman.” Pole caught her hand and pressed it. “As God is my judge, I'm the man, an' you' an' me an' the childern are a-goin' to move into that fine house right off.”
For a moment she stared into his face incredulously, and then gradually the truth dawned upon her.
“Oh, Pole,” she cried. “I can't stand it—it will kill me!” and with a great sob the little woman burst into tears. He tried to stop her, his rough hand on her frail, thin back, but her emotion swept through her like a storm. Suddenly she raised a wet, glowing face to his, and, with her sun-browned hand pressed tightly on her breast, she cried: “It hurts; it hurts right here—oh, Pole, I'm afraid it will kill me!”
In a few moments she was calmer, and as she sat in the red fire-light all aglow with her new happiness, she was a revelation to him. Not for years had he seen her look that way. She seemed young again. The marks of sorrow, poverty, and carking fear had dropped from her. Her eyes had the glisten of bedewed youth, her voice the vibrant ring of unquenchable joy. Suddenly she stood up.
“What you goin' to do?” he asked.
“To wake the childern an' tell 'em,” she said.
“I don't believe I would, Sally,” he protested.
“But I am—I am!” she insisted. “Do you reckon I'm goin' to let them pore little things lie thar an' not know it—not know it till mornin'?”
He let her have her way, and walked out on the little porch and slowly down to the barn. Suddenly he stretched out his hands and held them up towards the stars, and took a deep, reverent breath.