“Bein’ a religious man,” said Jim Turley, solemnly, “he’ll mend it.” When the parson came back there was nothing within her comprehension, which was quite sufficient to her need. “By-an’-by” Brown was sent home, with a kindly God-bless-ye! and an injunction of the most severe description to have done with by-an’-bying. He stumbled into his own kitchen in a shamefaced way, prepared, like a mischievous lad, to be scolded until his big ears burned and his scalp tingled; and he was a long, long time about hanging up his cap and coat and taking off his shoes, never once glancing toward the maid, who sat silent beyond the kitchen stove. And then, when by no further subterfuge could he prolong his immunity, he turned boldly in her direction, patiently and humbly to accept the inevitable correction, a promise to do better already fashioned upon his tongue. And there she sat, beyond the glowing stove, grinning in a way to show her white little teeth. Tears? Maybe: but only traces—where-left, indeed, for the maid to learn, or, at least, by her eyes shone all the brighter. And “By-an’-by” Brown, reproaching himself bitterly, sat down, with never a word, and began to trace strange pictures on the floor with the big toe of his gray-socked foot, while the kettle and the clock and the fire sang the old chorus of comfort and cheer. The big man’s big toe got all at once furiously interested in its artistic occupation. “Ah-ha!” says “By-an’-by’s” baby, “_I_ found you out!” “Uh-huh!” she repeated, threateningly, “I found _you_ out.” “Did ye?” “By-an’-by” softly asked. The maid came on tiptoe from behind the stove, and made an arrangement of “By-an’-by” Brown’s long legs convenient for straddling; and having then settled herself on his knees, she tipped up his face and fetched her own so close that he could not dodge her eyes, but must look in, whatever came of it; and then—to the reviving delight of “By-an’-by” Brown—she tapped his nose with a long little forefinger, emphasizing every word with a stouter tap, saying: “Yes—I—did!” “Uh-huh!” he chuckled. “An’,” said she, “I don’t _want_ no father.” “Ye don’t?” he cried, incredulous. “Because,” she declared, “I’m ’lowin’ t’ take care o’ _you_—an’ _marry_ you.” “Ye is?” he gasped. “Ye bet ye, b’y,” said “By-an’-by’s” baby—“by-an’-by!” Then they hugged each other hard. VIII—THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE