But 'twas good of you to come in search of me, and I'll
say what I've said a thousand times, that I've the best husband in
the world."
The Parson grumbled a bit; but, indeed, the woman was piled about
with packages up to the neck. So, very sad-like, he went back to his
own chaise--that was now slewed about for Falmouth--and off the
procession started at an easy trot, the good man bouncing up in his
seat from time to time to blow back a kiss.
But after awhile he shouted to the post-boy to pull up again.
"What's the matter, love?" sings out Mrs. Polwhele, overtaking him
and coming to a stand likewise.
"Why, it occurs to me, my angel, that _you_ might get into _my_
chaise, if you're not too tightly wedged."
"There's no saying what will happen when I once begin to move," said
Mrs. Polwhele: "but I'll risk it. For I don't mind telling you that
one of my legs went to sleep somewhere near St. Austell, and 'tis
dreadfully uncomfortable."
So out she was fetched and climbed in beside her husband.
"But what was it that upset you?" he asked, as they started again.
Mrs. Polwhele laid her cheek to his shoulder and sobbed aloud; and so
by degrees let out her story.
Pages:
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267