face all screwed with
anxious thought. He made me think of a fish-thief, somehow, with a
constable comin' down with the wind; an' it seemed, too, that maybe
'twas my fish he'd stole. For he'd lost his ease; he was full o' sighs
an' starts an' shifty glances. An' there was no health in his voice;
'twas but a disconsolate whisper--slinkin' out into the light o' day.
'Sin on his soul,' thinks I. 'He dwells in black weather.'

"'We spied you from the head,' says he--an' sighed. 'It gives me a
turn, lad, t' see you so sudden. But I'm wonderful glad you've come.'

"'Glad?' says I. 'Then look glad, ye crab!' An' I fetched un a clap on
the back.

"'Ouch!' says he. 'Don't, Tumm!'

"'I congratu_late_ you,' says I.

"'Mm-m?' says he. 'Oh, ay! Sure, lad.' No smile, mark you. An' he
looked off t' sea, as he spoke, an' then down at his boots, like a man
in shame. 'Ay,' says he, brows down, voice gone low an' timid.
'Congratu_late_ me, does you? Sure. That's proper--maybe.'

"'Nineteenth o' the month,' says I.

"'That's God's truth, Tumm.'

"'An' I'm come, ecod,' says I, 't' celebrate the first birthday o'
Tobias Tumm Mull!'

"'First birthday,' says he. 'That's God's truth.'

"'Isn't there goin' t' _be_ no celebration?'

"'Oh, sure!' says he. 'Oh, my, yes! Been gettin' ready for days. An'
I've orders t' fetch you straightway t' the house. Supper's laid,
Tumm. Four places at the board the night.'

"'I'll get my gifts,' says I; 'an' then----'

"He put a hand on my arm. 'What gifts?' says he.

"'Is you gone mad, Tim Mull?'

"'For--the child?' says he. 'Oh, sure! Mm-m!' He looked down at the
deck. 'I hopes, Tumm,' says he, 'that they wasn't so very--expensive.'

"'I'll spend what I likes,' says I, 'on my own godson.'

"'Sure, you will!' says he. 'But I wish that----'

"Then no more. He stuttered--an' gulped--an' give a sigh--an' went
for'ard. An' so I fetched the spoon an' the mug from below, in a sweat
o' wonder an' fear, an' we went ashore in Tim's punt, with Tim as
glum as a rainy day in the fall o' the year."

* * * * *

"An' now you may think that Mary Mull was woebegone, too. But she was
not. Brown, plump, an' rosy! How she bloomed! She shone with health;
she twinkled with good spirits. There was no sign o' shame upon her no
more. Her big brown eyes was clean o' tears. Her voice was soft with
content. A sweet woman, she was, ever, an' tender with happiness, now,
when she met