After the penultimate word there was a short pause, and at the last word there was the sharp crack of the flint, and in an instant the candle was lighted. Then the Archdeacon turned toward the bed and exchanged some words with his daughter. The bed was a mahogany four-post one, with legs like rocks, a hood like a pulpit sounding-board, and tapestry curtains like a muddy avalanche. The Archdeacon--he was a small man, with a face like a russet apple--leaned against one of the bed-posts, and said, in a tone of banter: "Why, Thorkell, and if you're for indulging custom, how comes it that you have not hung up your hat?" "My hat--my hat!" said Thorkell, in perplexity. "Aw, now," said the midwife, "the master's as great a man as any in the island at laughing at the men craythurs that hang up their hats over the straw to fright the boaganes, as the old woman said." Thorkell's laughter instantly burst forth to justify the midwife's statement. "Ha, ha! Hang up my hat! Well now, well now! Drives away the black spirits from the birth-bed--isn't that what the dunces say? It's twenty years since I saw the like of it done, and I'd forgotten the old custom. Must look funny, very, the good man's hat perched up on the bed-post? What d'ye say, Archdeacon, shall we have it up? Just for the laugh, you know, ha, ha!" In another moment Thorkell was gone from the room, and his titter could be heard from the stairs; it ebbed away and presently flowed back again, and Thorkell was once more by the bedside, laughing immoderately, and perching his angular soft hat on the topmost knob of one of the posts at the foot of the bed. Then Thorkell and the Archdeacon went down to the little room that had once been Gilcrist's room, looking over the Curragh to the sea. Before daybreak next morning a man child was born to Thorkell Mylrea, and an heir to the five hundred acres of Ballamona. CHAPTER III THE CHRISTENING OF YOUNG EWAN In the dead waste of that night the old wall of Ballamona echoed to the noise of hurrying feet. Thorkell himself ran like a squirrel, hither and thither, breaking out now and again into shrill peals of hysterical laughter; while the women took the kettle to the room above, and employed themselves there in sundry mysterious ordinances on which no male busybody might intrude. Thorkell dived down into the kitchen, and rooted about in the meal casks for the oaten cake, and into the larder for the cheese, and into the cupboard for the bread-basket known as the "peck."