Brown had never disclosed the brutal delinquency of Long Bill Tweak. Not to the maid, because he could not wound her; not to Blunder Cove, because he would not shame her. The revelation must be made, of course; but not now—by-an’-by. The maid knew that her mother was dead beyond recall: no mystery was ever made of that; and there ended the childish wish and wonder concerning that poor woman. But her father? Here was an inviting mystery. No; he was not what you might call dead—jus’ sort o’ gone away. Would he ever come back? Oh, _sure_! no need o’ frettin’ about that; _he’d_ be back—by-an’-by. Had “By-an’-by” Brown said _Never_, the problem would have been dieposed of, once and for all: the fretting over with, once and for all. But what he said was this uncourageous and specious by-an’-by. So the maid waited in interested speculation: then impatiently. For she was used to saying, You _told_ me so. Also, But then you _promised_. As by-an’-by overhauled by-an’-by in the days of “By-an’-by” Brown, and as the ultimate by-an’-by became imminent, “By-an’-by” Brown was ever more disquieted. “But,” says the maid, “‘by-an’-by’ is never.” “Oh, my, no!” he protested. She tapped the tip of his nose with a long little forefinger, and emphasized every word with a stouter tap. “Yes—it—is!” said she. “Not _never_,” cried “By-an’-by” Brown. “Then,” says she, “is it to-morrow?” Brown violently shook his head. “Is it nex’ week?” “Goodness, no!” “Well,” she insisted—and she took “By-an’-by’s” face between her palms and drew it close to search his eyes—“is it nex’ year?” “Maybe.” She touched the tip of her white little nose to the sunburned tip of his. “But _is_ it?” she persisted. “Uh-huh,” said “By-an’-by” Brown, recklessly, quite overcome, committing himself beyond redemption; “nex’ year.” And “By-an’-by’s” baby remembered.... * * * * * Next year began, of course, with the first day of January. And a day with wind and snow it was! Through the interval of three months preceding, Brown had observed the approach of this veritable by-an’-by with rising alarm. And on New Year’s Day, why, there it was: by-an’-by come at last! “By-an’-by” Brown, though twenty-two, was frightened. No wonder! Hitherto his life had not been perturbed by insoluble bewilderments. But how to produce Long Bill Tweak from the mist into which he had vanished at Back Yard Bight of the Labrador seven years ago? It was beyond him. Who could call Bill Tweak from seven years of time and the very waste places of space? Not “By-an’-by” Brown, who could only ponder and sigh and scratch his curly head. And here was the maid, used to saying, as maids of seven will, But you told me so! and, You _promised_! So “By-an’-by” Brown was downcast as never before; but before the day was spent he conceived that the unforeseen might yet fortuitously issue in the salvation of himself and the baby. “Maybe,” thought he—“by-an’-by!”