Iver would care for her. He who had been her earliest and dearest friend; he, who through all his years of absence, had cherished the thought of her; he who had told her that the Ship was no home to him without her in it; that he valued Thursley only because she lived there; he who had clasped her with his arm, called her his own and only one; to him--to him--at last, without guilt, without scruples; she could fly to him and say, "Iver, I am driven from door to door; no one will receive me. Every one is suspicious of me, thinks evil of me. But you--yourself, who have known me from infancy--you who baptized me to save me from becoming a wanderer--see, a wanderer, homeless, with my poor babe, I come to you--do you provide that I may be housed and sheltered. I ask not for myself so much as for my little one! To Iver--to Iver--as my one refuge, my only hope!" Then it was as though her heart were light, and her heels winged. She sprang up from where she had cast herself, and forgetful of her weariness, ran, and stayed not till she had reached the familiar porch of the dear old Ship. And already through the bar window a light shone. The night had not set in, yet a light was shining forth, a ray of gold, to welcome the wanderer, to draw her in, with promise of comfort and of rest. And there--there in the porch door stood Iver. "What! Mehetabel! come here--here--after all! Come in at once. Welcome! A word together we must have! My little Mehetabel! Welcome! Welcome!" CHAPTER L. MOVE ON. "Come in, little friend! dear Matabel! come into the kitchen, by the fire, and let us have a talk." His voice was cheery, his greeting hearty, his manner frank. He drew her along the passage, and brought her into the little kitchen in which that declaration had taken place, the very last time she had been within the doors of the inn, and he seated her in the settle, the very place she had occupied when he poured out his heart to her. Mehetabel could not speak. Her bosom was too full. Tears sparkled in her eyes, and ran down her cheeks. The glow of the peat and wood fire was on her face, and gave to it a color it did not in reality possess. She tried to say something, but her voice gave way. Half laughing in the midst of tears she stammered, "You are good to me, Iver." He took the stool and drew it before the fire that he might look up into her agitated face. "How have you come?" asked he. "I walked." "Where from--not Kingston?" "Oh, no! only from Gorlmyn." "But that is a long way. And did you carry the child?" "Yes, Iver! But, oh! he is no weight. You have not seen him. Look at him. He is quiet now, but he has been very troublesome; not that he could help it, but he has been unwell." With the pride and love of a mother she unfolded the wraps that concealed her sleeping child, and laid it on her knees. The dancing light fell over it. Iver drew his stool near, and looked at the infant. "I am no judge of babies," he said, "but--it is very small."