"Here you are, girls. Aint this a bit of news? Your father's come back. Wasn't drowned at all, and never wrote. But he's back at last. Here, Jane,—Winnie—Molly—come along. It's your husband, Molly." The two were confronted. Farmer Paine dragged forward the wanderer, a sheepish, puzzled figure; and Mrs. Morris moved to meet him. She was imperturbable even now, though her face showed that she was startled. Jane stared with round eyes. Winnie trembled like a leaf. "Molly, my dear, it's your husband. Him as you thought was dead." Mrs. Morris stood stock still, one hand folded over the other, after the style of the superior housekeeper receiving orders from her mistress. "Some mistake or other," muttered Morris, holding back. "Yes, it's a mistake," she agreed. She looked at the farmer. "That aint my husband." "Not!" The farmer's jaw fell. "And Molly she never was my wife, though she was to have been, if she hadn't gone and jilted me." "Well, I never!" uttered Mr. Paine. "And if you're not Phil Morris, who are you, man?" "I'm Phil Morris, sure enough. But I aint Molly's husband—worse luck." He turned to the girls. "Nor I aint their father. Wish I was!" "Never been married!" The farmer was all astray still. "Well, I did marry, and she's dead, and I've come back. I'd no luck out there, and I thought I'd try the old country agen. And a sort of a wish corned over me, to see if Molly was alive." He turned to Mrs. Morris. "And you married that other chap, did you?" She nodded, and his gaze went to Mr. Paine. "Whatever did you mean—saying she wasn't married?" The farmer seemed dazed, and he spoke slowly. "I thought she was your widow. I meant—she'd never married again." "Well, she never was my wife, though she'd promised to be. She was comin' out to me in Canada; and all of a sudden she wrote and chucked me. Said she was goin' to marry another feller, and I shouldn't never hear from her agen. That hit hard, I can tell 'ee— it did, farmer. I cared a lot for Molly." Other questions were thronging on Farmer Paine. "Molly went to Canada," he said; and his fine rugged face had grown hard. "If she didn't go to you, what did she go for?" A moment's silence. "Who was it you married, Molly,—if it wasn't Phil Morris?" Mrs. Morris spoke stolidly, one hand still folded neatly over the other. "It was another man," she said. "I came across him; and I found I didn't care for Phil. I'd thought I did, and I didn't. It was the other I cared for—not him. He was a bit above me—a gentlemen out and out—and he didn't want his folks to know about me being his wife— he didn't want the fuss there'd be. So I just kept it secret, and let nobody know. It didn't matter to other people." "It mattered to me," the farmer said, his voice grieved and hoarse. "It mattered to me and my wife. And you took us in too." "Yes. It had to be, uncle." "And you went to Canada with the other man."