As January progressed the maid grew more eager and still more confident. He _promised_, thinks she; also, He _told_ me so. There were times, as the terrified Brown observed, when this eagerness so possessed the child that she trembled in a fashion to make him shiver. She would start from her chair by the stove when a knock came late o’ windy nights on the kitchen door; she would stare up the frozen harbor to the Tickle by day—peep through the curtains, interrupt her housewifely duties to keep watch at the window. “Anyhow, he _will_ come,” says she, quite confidently, “by-an’-by.” “Uh-huh!” Brown must respond. What was a shadow upon the gentle spirit of “By-an’-by” Brown was the sunlight of certain expectation irradiating “By-an’-by’s” baby. But the maid fell ill. Nobody knew why. Suspicion dwelled like a skeleton with “By-an’-by” Brown; but this he did not divulge to Blunder Cove. Nothin’ much the matter along o’ she, said the Cove; jus’ a little spell o’ somethin’ or other. It was a childish indisposition, perhaps—but come with fever and pallor and a poignant restlessness. “By-an’-by” Brown had never before known how like to a black cloud the future of a man might be. At any rate, she must be put to bed: whereupon, of course, “By-an’-by” Brown indefinitely put off going to bed, having rather stand watch, he said. It was presently a question at Blunder Cove: who was the more wan and pitiable, “By-an’-by’s” baby, being sick, or “By-an’-by,” being anxious? And there was no cure anywhere to be had—no cure for either. “By-an’-by” Brown conceived that the appearance of Long Bill Tweak would instantly work a miracle upon the maid. But where was Bill Tweak? There was no magic at hand to accomplish the feat of summoning a scamp from Nowhere! One windy night “By-an’-by” Brown sat with the child to comfort her. “I ’low,” he drawled, “that you wisht a wonderful sight that your father was here.” “Uh-_huh_!” the maid exclaimed. Brown sighed. “I s’pose,” he muttered. “Is he comin’?” she demanded. “Oh—by-an’-by!” “I wisht ’twas _now_,” said she. “That I does!” Brown listened to the wind. It was blowing high and bitterly: a winter wind, with snow from the northeast. “By-an’-by” was troubled. “I ’low,” said he, hopelessly, “that you’ll love un a sight, won’t ye?—when he comes?” “Ye bet ye!” the maid answered. “More’n ye love—some folks?” “A lot,” said she. Brown was troubled. He heard the kitchen stove snore in its familiar way, the kettle bubble, the old wind assault the cottage he had builded for the baby; and he remembered recent years—and was troubled. “Will ye love un more?” he asked, anxiously, turning his face from the child, “than ye loves me?” He hesitated. “Ye won’t, will ye?” he implored. “’Twill be different,” said she. “Will it?” he asked, rather vacantly. “Ye see,” she explained, “he’ll be my _father_.” “Then,” suggested “By-an’-by,” “ye’ll be goin’ away along o’ he?—when he comes?” “Oh, my, no!”