"Yes," they said, "bring her out, Tom." Tom did not rise from his seat. He tilted his chair back and balanced himself on his heels, his hands thrust into his pockets. "Boys," he said, "I'll bring her out on one condition, and that is that there shall be no shines. I wouldn't have her scared or upset for a good deal. There's a joke in this sort of thing, I daresay; but it ain't all joke. If I bring her out and show her, there's to be no crowding and no row." It was agreed that there should be none, and he left his chair and went to the inner room again. When he returned, the men who had been lounging in the porch had come in, though perhaps not one among them understood his own unusual interest in the affair. Babies were not rarities in Hamlin County, every cabin and farm-house in the region being filled to overflowing with white-headed, sunburnt youngsters. And yet when Tom appeared there was a moment of silence. The child was asleep, its tiny black head resting peacefully against the huge chest of its bearer. There was no trace of confusion or awkwardness in his face, he seemed well content with his burden, and perhaps it was the quiet of his manner as much as anything else which caused the slight hush to fall upon those around him. At last a middle-aged farmer stepped forward. He gave the child a long and rather curious look. "Gal, ain't it?" he enquired. "Yes," Tom answered. "Wal, 'tain't a bad thing fer her she's got some un to stan' by her; gals needs it." Tom gave her a long look too. She was sleeping very quietly; it might have been her mother's breast she was lying against. "Well," he said, "here's a man to stand by her," and then he raised his head and looked at the rest of them. "Boys," he said, "that's a promise. Remember it." And he carried her back. CHAPTER VI The rooms at the back had never seemed so quiet before as when, at the close of the day, he went into them. They seemed all the quieter by contrast with the excitement of the past hours. In the kitchen Mornin was giving the final touches to the supper, and in the room which was at once sitting-room and bedroom, the wooden cradle had fitted itself in a corner near the fireplace and wore an air of permanent establishment remarkable to contemplate when one considered how unlooked-for an incident it was. On the threshold of this apartment Tom paused a moment. Such silence reigned that he could hear the soft, faint breathing of the child as it lay asleep. He stopped a second or so to listen to it. Then he stooped down, and began to loosen his shoes gently. As he was doing it, Mornin caught sight of him in passing the open door. "Mars Tom," she said, "what's ye a-gwine fer to do?" "I'm going to take them off," he answered, seriously. "They'll make too much noise." The good soul in the kitchen chuckled.