The afternoon faded tranquilly into dusk. No wind agitated a single dewy petal, and only the blackbirds with intermittent alarums broke the silence. The ripe round moon of harvest, floating mild and yellow and faintly luminous along the sky, was not yet above the hills. Mrs. Trewhella was not yet willing to despatch a summons to the doctor. Two more hours sank away. Out in the fields, marching full in the moon's face, the reapers went slowly homewards. Out in the fields they sang old songs of the earth and the grain; out in the waste the fox pricked his ears and the badger turned to listen. Down in the reeds the sedge-warbler lisped through the low ground vapors his little melody. The voices of the harvesters died away in purple glooms, and now, as if in a shell, the sea was heard lapping the sand. Through the open lattice rose the scent of the tobacco plants. There was a murmur of voices in consultation. Jenny heard a shout for Thomas, and presently horses' hoofs trotting down the farm road. High and small and silver was the moon before she heard them coming back. The dewdrops were all diamonds, the wreathed vapors were damascened by moonlight, before she heard the grate of wheels and the click of the gate and another murmur of voices. Then the room was filled with black figures; entering lamplight seemed to magnify her pain, and Jenny knew little more until, recovering from chloroform, she perceived a candle, large as a column, burning with giant spearhead of flame and, beyond the blue and silver lattice, apprehended a fuss of movement. "What is it?" she asked in momentary perplexity. "'Tis a boy," said Mrs. Trewhella. "A grand lill chap." "What's all that noise?" she murmured petulantly. "'Tis me, my dear soul," said Mrs. Trewhella, "putting all straight as we belong." May leaned over her sister, squeezing her hand. "I think I shall like having a baby," said Jenny, "when we can take him out for walks. You know, just you and me, young May." Chapter XLI: _Columbine Happy_ Jenny was ivory now: the baby had stolen all the coral from her cheeks. Outside, the treetops shook tremulous black lace across the silver deeps of the sky and jigged with ebony boughs upon the circle of the moon. Clear as bells sounded the slow breakers on Trewinnard beach, and in the tall room a white moth circled round the candle-flame interminably. A rat squeaked in the wall. "Fancy," said Jenny to May, who sat in the shadow by the foot of the bed. "I thought I shouldn't like nursing a baby, but I think it's glorious." A curlew cried through the October night and was answered far down the valley. "I wish mother could have seen my baby," sighed Jenny. "It's my birthday next week. Funny if we'd both been born the same day." The candle spat with the moth's death, then burned with renewed brightness. "Time the rogue went to sleep," said May authoritatively. "Feel his hands," said Jenny. "They're like velvet bows."