Strange things were going through the mind
of the slow-witted Jim. He braced himself for a difficult
question.
"Will yer answer me somethin' straight?" he asked.
"Why, of course," she said as she met his gaze.
"Do you love the parson, Poll?"
She started.
"Is that it?"
Her lids fluttered and closed, she caught her breath quickly, her
lips apart, then looked far into the distance.
"Yes, Jim, I'm afraid--that's it." The little figure drooped,
and she stood before him with lowered eyes, unarmed. Jim looked
at her helplessly, then shook his big, stupid head.
"Ain't that hell?"
It seemed such a short time to Jim since he had picked her up, a
cooing babe, at her dead mother's side. He watched the tender,
averted face. Things had turned out so differently from what he
had planned.
"And he didn't care about you--like that?" he asked, after a
pause.
"No, not in that way." She was anxious to defend the pastor from
even the thought of such a thing. "He was good and kind always,
but he didn't care THAT WAY. He's not like that."
"I guess I'll have a talk with him," said Jim, and he turned to
go.
"Talk!" she cried.
He stopped and looked at her in astonishment. It was the first
time that he had ever heard that sharp note in her voice.
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