oughtn't to have mentioned it, but,"--Mr. Benny rubbed the back of his
head. "You don't know how it is--no, of course you wouldn't; somehow,
when a child's born, I want to be talking all day."

"Like a hen. Well, run along home, and some day you shall ask us to tea
with it."

But Mr. Benny had reached the wicket. It slammed behind him, and he ran
down the street to the ferry at a round trot. He might have spared his
haste, for he had to cool his heels for a good ten minutes on the slipway,
and fill up the time in telling his news to half a dozen workmen gathered
there and awaiting the boat. Old Nicky Vro, the ferryman, had pulled the
same leisurable stroke for forty years now, and was not to be hurried.

The workmen were carpenters, all engaged upon the new schoolhouse above
the hill, and returning from their day's job. They discussed the building
as Nicky Vro tided them over. Its fittings, they agreed, were something
out of the common.

"'Tis the old man's whim," said one. "He's all for education now, and the
latest improvements. 'Capability'--that's his word."

"A poor lookout it'll be for Aunt Butson and her Infant School."

"He'll offer her the new place, maybe," it was suggested.

But all laughed at this. "What? with his notions? He's a darned sight
more likely to offer her Nicky's job, here!"

Nicky smiled complacently in his half-witted way. "That's a joke, too,"
said he. He knew himself to be necessary to the ferry.

He pulled on--still with the same digging stroke which he could not have
altered for a fortune--while his passengers discussed Rosewarne and
Rosewarne's ways.

"Tis a hungry gleaning where he've a-reaped," said the man who had spoken
of capability; "but I don't blame the old Greek--not I. 'Do or be done,
miss doing and be done for'--that's the world's motto nowadays; and if I
hadn't learnt it for myself, I've a son in America to write it home.
Here we be all in a heap, and the lucky one levers himself a-top."

Mr. Benny said good-night to them on the landing-slip, and broke into a
trot for home.

"'Tisn't true," he kept repeating to himself, almost fiercely for so mild
a little man. "'Tisn't true, whatever it sounds. There's another world;
and in this one--don't I _know_ it?--there's love, love, love!"

CHAPTER II.

FATHERS AND CHILDREN.

John Rosewarne fetched his hat and staff from the hall, and started on his
customary stroll around the farm-buildings, with