“No, I sha’n’t,” answered Jenny, “so there! I’ve ’ad job enough wi’ the poor mite, and he’s sleepin’ peaceful now. I ain’t a-goin’ to let you throw him back in convulsions; no, not if ye was twenty times ’is mother! Ye ain’t fit to ’ave ’im to-night, I tell ye. I’ll bring ’im in the mornin’!” “Oh, Lord, twenty times ’is mother,” echoed Mrs. Barnes, beginning to laugh foolishly and as quickly changing the laugh to a whimper! “Get ye’ gone, do,” said the girl, “ye’ll wake ’im again! I tell ye, ye shall ’ave yer child in the mornin’.” She went within, and the woman, unable to cope with any resistance, shambled feebly off again, laughing and crying as she went. Martin stepped forward out of the shadow, shaking his fist at her. Inside the hut he could see Jenny on her knees beside a bundle of shawls, on which she had laid the little one,—Jenny, tenderly arranging ragged coverings more closely round a tiny body. Yes—Jenny on her knees beside his own child, stroking it softly, singing pretty ditties to it in an undertone, cherishing it with every sweet sound that bubbles to a mother’s lips: her own was gone, but she had learnt the trick of child-love that slumbers in every woman’s breast, and this strange and lonely babe was soothing her sore heart. Martin stood watching her, motionless, not daring to breathe. But there was something in his throat that troubled him, and he lifted his hand to his eyes, and in so doing rustled the straw of the hut against which he stood. She started. “Who’s that?” she cried, jumping up. Then he advanced slowly into the opening. “It’s me,” he said humbly. She motioned to him to go further off, and then she followed him outside until they both stood in the full moonlight. She was trembling. “Ye ’adn’t no call to come round ’ere at this time o’ night,” said she in her old defiant tone—but her voice was low, for, stirred as she was, she still remembered the sleeping babe. “Nor I didn’t mean to,” said he, nowise offended and still apologetic. “But I see’d ye hushin’ the brat, and I wondered what was up.” “It’s Mrs. Barnes’s brat,” said she, a trifle coldly. “It’s sick, and I’m mindin’ it for ’er. She ain’t fit to ’ave a child of ’er own.” She said it almost roughly, and then lapsed into silence. Martin sighed, and stood considering. “It ain’t Mrs. Barnes’s brat,” said he at last. She looked at him quickly. “It ain’t Mrs. Barnes’s?” repeated she, puzzled. “Why, o’ course it is! I fetched it to-night.” Then a quick suspicion of _his_ possible suspicion crossing her mind she said, in a voice in which shame and anger strangely wrestled: “Who’s do _you_ think it is?” But he had no glimmering of her thought, and said in the same humble tone as before: “Well, ye see, I _know_ who’s ’tis—’cos it’s mine.” She turned sharply, staring at him open-mouthed. “Well, I never!” she ejaculated.