upon the small sleeper’s face, he placed it at the farther end of the high mantel.
“She’ll be more comfortable,” he said. And then sat down feeling at ease with his conscience.
Mornin went back to her supper shaking her head.
“By de time she’s a year old, dar won’t be no managin’ her,” she said. “Da’s allus de way wid de men folks, allus too hard or too soft; better leav’ her to Mornin ‘n’ ust’n her to things right at de start.”
There seemed little chance that she would be so “ustened.” Having finished his supper, Tom carried his pipe and newspaper into the kitchen.
“I’ll sit here awhile,” he said. “The smoke might be too much for her, and the paper rustles so. We’d better let her have her sleep out.”
But when the pipe was out and the last page of the paper read, he went back to his own room. The small ark stranded in his chimney corner was attractive enough to draw him there. It was a stronger attraction than it would have been to most men. He had always been fond of children and curious concerning them. There was not a child in the surrounding region who had not some remembrance of his rather too lavish good-nature. A visit to the Cross-roads was often held out as a reward for circumspect behaviour, and the being denied the treat was considered punishment heavy enough for most juvenile crimes.
“Ef ye’d had young uns of yer own, Tom, ye’d hev ruined them, shore,” the secretly delighted matrons frequently remarked. “You’d let ’em run right over ye. I reckon ye keep that candy thar right a-purpose to feed ’em on now, don’t yer?”
His numerous admirers, whose affection for him was founded on their enjoyment of his ponderous witticisms and the humour which was the little leavening of their unexciting lives, had once or twice during the past few days found themselves unprepared for, and so somewhat bewildered by, the new mood which had now and then revealed itself.
“It’s kinder outer Tom’s way to take things like he takes this; it looks onnat’ral,” they said.
If they had seen him as he drew up to the cradle’s side, they would have discovered that they were confronting a side of the man of which they knew nothing. It was the man whose youth had been sore-hearted and desolate, while he had been too humble to realise that it was so, and with reason. If he had known lonely hours in the past eight years, only the four walls of the little back room had seen them. He had always enacted his rôle well outside; but it was only natural that the three silent rooms must have seemed too empty now and again. As he bent over the cradle, he remembered such times, and somehow felt as if they were altogether things of the past and not to trouble him again.
“She’ll be life in the place,” he said. “When she sleeps less and is old enough to make more noise, it will be quite cheerful.”
He spoke with the self-congratulating innocence of inexperience. A speculative smile settled upon his countenance.
“When she begins to crawl around and—and needs looking after, it will be lively enough,” he reflected. “She’ll keep us busy, I daresay.”
It was a circumstance perhaps worthy of mention that he never spoke of the little creature as “it.”
“She’ll need a good deal of looking after,” he went on. “It won’t do to let her tumble around and take care of herself, as a boy might. We must be tender of her.”
He bent forward and drew the cover cautiously over the red flannel sleeve.
“They think it a good joke, those fellows,” he said; “but it isn’t a joke with us, is it, young woman? We’ve a pretty big job to engineer between us, but I daresay we shall come out all right. We shall be good friends in the end, and that’s a pretty nice thing for a lonely fellow to look forward to.”
Then he arose stealthily and returned to the kitchen.
“I want you to tell me,” he said to Mornin, “what she needs. I suppose she needs something or other.”
“She needs mos’ ev’rything, Mars Tom,” was the answer; “seems like she hain’t bin pervided fer ’t all, no more ’n ef she was a-gwine ter be a youn’ tukky dat de Lord hisself hed fitted out at de start.”
“Well,” said Tom, “I’ll go to Barnesville to-morrow and talk to Judge Rutherford’s wife about it. She’ll know what she ought to have.”
And, after a few moments given to apparently agreeable reflection, he went back to the room he had left.
He had barely seated himself, however, when he was disturbed by a low-sounding tap on the side door, which stood so far open as to allow of any stray evening breeze entering without reaching the corner of the chimney.
“Come in!” said Tom, not in a friendly roar, as usual, but in a discreetly guarded voice.
The door was pushed gently open and the visitor stood revealed, blinking with an impartial air at the light within.
“Don’t push it wide open,” said Tom; “come in if you are going to, and leave it as it was.”
Mr. Stamps obeyed without making any noise whatever. It was one of his amiable peculiarities that he never made any noise, but appeared and disappeared without giving any warning, making himself very agreeable thereby at inopportune moments. He slipped in without a sound, deftly left the door in its previous position, and at once slipped into a chair, or rather took possession of one, by balancing himself on the extreme edge of it, arranging his legs on the lower bar with some dexterity.
“Howdy?” he said, meekly, having accomplished this.
Tom’s manner was not cordial. He stretched himself, put his hands in his pockets, and made no response to the greeting which was, upon the whole, a rather unnecessary one, as Mr. Stamps had been hanging about the post-office through the whole day, and had only wended his way homeward a few hours before.
“Want anything?” he enquired.
Mr. Stamps turned his hat around in his hands hurriedly.
“No, I don’t want nothin’, Tom,” he said. Then, after a pause, he added, very softly:
“I jest thought I’d step in.”
“Where are you going?” asked Tom.
The hat was turned round again.
“Whar wus I a-gwine?” deprecatingly. “Whar? Oh! I—I was a-gwine—I was a-gwine to Marthy’s, I guess.”
“You’re pretty late,” remarked Tom; “better lose no time; it’s a pretty bad road between here and there.”
“So ’tis,” replied Mr. Stamps, apparently struck with the originality of the suggestion. “So ’tis!” He appeared to reflect deeply for a few seconds, but suddenly his eyes began to wander across the room and rested finally upon the corner in which the cradle stood. He jerked his head towards it.
“It’s thar, is it?” he enquired.
“Yes, she’s thar,” Tom answered, rather crustily. “What
