"Good God!" exclaimed Alfred, stroking his forehead with his
unoccupied hand, and gazing at what he firmly believed must be an
apparition, "THOSE aren't MINE," he pointed to the two red mites
in Aggie's arms.
"Wh--why not, Alfred?" stammered Aggie for the want of something
better to say.
"What?" shrieked Alfred. Then he turned in appeal to his young
wife, whose face had now become utterly expressionless. "Zoie?"
he entreated.
There was an instant's pause, then the blood returned to Zoie's
face and she proved herself the artist that Alfred had once
declared her.
"OURS, dear," she murmured softly, with a bashful droop of her
lids.
"But THIS one?" persisted Alfred, pointing to the baby in his
arms, and feeling sure that his mind was about to give way.
"Why--why--why," stuttered Zoie, "THAT'S the JOKE."
"The joke?" echoed Alfred, looking as though he found it anything
but such.
"Yes," added Aggie, sharing Zoie's desperation to get out of
their temporary difficulty, no matter at what cost in the future.
"Didn't Jimmy tell you?"
"Tell me WHAT?" stammered Alfred, "what IS there to tell?"
"Why, you see," said Aggie, growing more enthusiastic with each
elaboration of Zoie's lie, "we didn't dare to break it to you too
suddenly."
"Break it to me?" gasped Alfred; a new light was beginning to
dawn on his face.
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