The women were scurrying up and down, giggling on the landings, laughing on the stairs, and saying _hush_ at their own noises as they crept into the room. In a fretful whimper the child was still crying, and Grannie was telling it, with many wags of the head and in a mighty stern voice, that they were going to have none of its complaining now that it _had_ come at last; and Kate Herself, with hands clasped together, was saying in a soft murmur like a prayer, “God is very good, and the doctor is good too. God is good to give us doctors.” “Lie quiet, and I'll come back in an hour or two,” said Dr. Mylechreest from half-way through the door. “Dear heart alive, what will the father say?” cried Grannie, and then the whole place broke into that smile of surprise which comes to every house after the twin angels of Life and Death have brooded long over its roof-tree, and are gone at length before the face of a little child. VIII. When Pete came up to the quay in the raw sunshine of early morning, John the Clerk, mounted on a barrel, was selling by auction the night's take of the boats. “I've news for you, Mr. Quilliam,” he cried, as Pete's boat, with half sail set, dropped down the harbour. Pete brought to, leapt ashore, and went up to where John, at the end of the jetty, surrounded by a crowd of buyers in little spring-carts, was taking bids for the fish. “One moment, Capt'n,” he cried, across his outstretched arm, at the end whereof was a herring with gills still opening and closing. “Ten maise of this sort for the last lot, well fed, alive and kicking--how much for them? Five shillings? Thank you--and three, Five and three. It's in it yet, boys--only five and three--and six, thank _you_. It'll do no harm at five and six--six shillings? All done at six--_and six?_ All done at six and six?” “Seven shillings,” shouted somebody with a voice like a foghorn. “They're Annie the Cadger's,” said John, dropping to the ground. “And now, Capt'n Quilliam, we'll go and wet the youngster's head.” Pete went up to Sulby like an avalanche, shouting his greetings to everybody on the way. But when he got near to the “Fairy,” he wiped his steaming forehead and held his panting breath, and pretended not to have heard the news. “How's the poor girl now?” he said in a meek voice, trying to look powerfully miserable, and playing his part splendidly for thirty seconds. Then the women made eyes at each other and looked wondrous knowing, and nodded sideways at Pete, and clucked and chuckled, saying, “Look at him,--_he_ doesn't know anything, does he?” “Coorse not, woman--these men creatures are no use for nothing.” “Out of a man's way,” cried Pete, with a roar, and he made a rush for the stairs. Nancy blocked him at the foot of them with both hands on his shoulders. “You'll be quiet, then,” she whispered. “You were always a rasonable man, Pete, and she's wonderful wake--promise you'll be quiet.”