“Here is the mistress of the house coming back,” he cried, “and singing like the shepherdess in the opera.”
It was Polly Ann indeed. At the sound of his mother's voice, little Tom jumped down from the lady's lap and ran past Mr. Riddle at the door. Mrs. Temple's thoughts were gone across the mountains.
“And what is that you have under your arm?” said Mr. Riddle, as he gave back.
“I've fetched some prime bacon fer your supper, sir,” said Polly Ann, all rosy from her walk; “what I have ain't fit to give ye.”
Mrs. Temple rose.
“My dear,” she said, “what you have is too good for us. And if you do such a thing again, I shall be very angry.”
“Lord, ma'am,” exclaimed Polly Ann, “and you use' ter dainties an' silver an' linen! Tom is gone to try to git a turkey for ye.” She paused, and looked compassionately at the lady. “Bless ye, ma'am, ye're that tuckered from the mountains! 'Tis a fearsome journey.”
“Yes,” said the lady, simply, “I am tired.”
“Small wonder!” exclaimed Polly Ann. “To think what ye've been through—yere husband near to dyin' afore yere eyes, and ye a-reskin' yere own life to save him—so Tom tells me. When Tom goes out a-fightin' redskins I'm that fidgety I can't set still. I wouldn't let him know what I feel fer the world. But well ye know the pain of it, who love yere husband like that.”
The lady would have smiled bravely, had the strength been given her. She tried. And then, with a shudder, she hid her face in her hands.