Agnes took the little fellow in her arms; he was a pretty, chubby child, between two and three years of age; he had been crying forlornly, but at the sight of a bowl of warm mush and milk his tears ceased. Polly had gathered her own brood about her, and they were shrilly calling, “Daddy, daddy!” while Polly herself had not taken her eyes off Jimmy’s face. “It’s me own lad, me own lad,” she crooned, rocking herself back and forth. “An’ where’s yer hair, Jimmy dear? An’ you with such a fine crop. An’ how did ye git here, an’ are ye hungry?” “Hungry I am,” was the response, “as anybody’d be who’d not tasted bite nor sup since yesterday. I’d a little parched corn, but it gave out yesterday. Faith! I was not travellin’ heavy handed, an’ Polly, lass, lest I’d be burdened with too much to carry, I left me hair behind me.” He gave a chuckle and took the bowl which Agnes handed him, eating as a famished man would. “An’ did ye know ye was coming this way, an’ that ye’d find me an’ the bairns?” “Not a lick did I know where I’d be fetchin’ up. I took the coorse av the river an’ reckoned upon its bringing me out somewhere among daycint folks. It’s the freshet ye’ve to thank, Polly, for the sight av me. I’d not got away but for it. The watter riz so high the redskins concluded to move their camp, and in the kinfusion I slipped away, an’ bein’ a good swimmer, trusted mesel’ to the watter for a bit, and then I got ashore and made me bit av raft an’ consigned mesel’ to the river. I caught sight av the bairn there, as I passed the snags, and thinks I, Jimmy O’Neill, ye’ve niver yit been onwillin’ to risk yer life fur a weak little creetur, an’ suppose it was one o’ yer own bairnies; so says I, ‘I’ll save it or lose me own skin.’ He was settin’ there, the purtiest ye ever see, in the top av the stump, as snug as if it had been a cradle, the watter swirlin’ around him an’ tossin’ him about. But he was well balanced, somehow, an’ niver a fut did he wet.” Agnes picked up the baby from where she had set him in the midst of Polly’s children. “What’s your name, baby?” she asked. “Honey,” he replied. “I’se Honey, an’ dad put me in a big tree an’ it sailded.” And that was all they could get out of him, so Honey he remained. “How his poor mother will mourn for him,” said Polly, hugging her own youngest close to her. “I wish we could find out where he came from. I don’t believe it can be very far away, or he’d be in a worse plight.” “If it isn’t far, maybe we can find out,” said Parker. “We’ll keep him for the present, will we, Polly?” “Will we? Am I a brute to turn a baby out into the worruld? An’ on a day when he’s fetched home to me by me own man?” “I’ll take care of him,” said Agnes, eagerly. “I’d love to, Polly. Just hand him over to me; you’ve enough of your own to look after.” “But I’ve me man to help me now,” said Polly, joyously, looking triumphantly toward Jimmy.