“Mister Totley, sir,” Jonathan Stock replied, solemnly, “I _will_ get that flour down t’ five. Don’t you fret no more about feedin’ my little crew,” he pleaded. “’Tis kind o’ you; an’ I’m sorry you’ve t’ fret.” “Thank you, Jonathan.” “An’ ... you wouldn’t mind lashin’ this bit o’ cotton on my wrist, would you, sir? The sleeve o’ my jacket sort o’ chafes the sore.” “A bad hand, Jonathan!” “No—oh no; _it_ ain’t bad. I’ve had scores of un in my time. It don’t amount t’ nothin’. Oh no—it ain’t what you might call _bad_!” The wrist was bound anew. Jonathan stumbled down the dark steps to the water-side, glad that his wife was to have that which she so much desired. He pushed out in the punt. She was only a woman, he thought, with an indulgent smile, but she _did_ want—that little thing. The wind was high—the rain sweeping out of the east. He turned the bow of the punt toward a point of light shining cheerily far off in the dark, tumultuous night. * * * * * Jonathan Stock had no more than got off his soggy boots, and washed his hands, and combed his hair, and drawn close to the kitchen fire—while his wife clattered over the bare floor about the business of his comfort—when Parson Jaunt tapped and entered: and folded his umbrella, and wiped his face with a white handkerchief, and jovially rubbed his hands together. This was a hearty, stout little man, with a double chin and a round, rosy face; with twinkling eyes; with the jolliest little paunch in the world; dressed all in black cloth, threadbare and shiny, powdered with dandruff upon the shoulders; and wearing a gigantic yellow chain hanging from pocket to pocket of the waistcoat, and wilted collar and cuffs, and patent-leather shoes, which were muddy and cracked and turned up at the toes. A hearty welcome he got; and he had them all laughing at once—twins and all. Even the chickens in the coop under the settee clucked, and the kid behind the stove rapturously bleated, and the last baby chuckled, and the dog yawned and shook his hind quarters, joyfully awake. ’Twas always comforting to have Parson Jaunt drop in. Wherever he went among the folk of Candlestick Cove, in wet weather or dry, poor times or bad, there was a revival of jollity. His rippling person, smiling face, quick laugh, amiable intimacy, his quips and questions, his way with children—these made him beloved. Ay, there was always a welcome for Parson Jaunt! “Ha, ha! Yes,” the parson proceeded, “the brethren will be here on the next mail-boat for the district meeting. Ha, ha! Well, well, now! And how’s the baby getting along, Aunt Tibbie? Hut! you little toad; don’t you laugh at me!” But the baby would.