There was a great spread on the table, of tinned fruits and tinned salmon, ham and cakes. Miss Rowbotham kept a keen eye on everything: she felt the importance of the occasion. The young mother who had given rise to all this solemnity ate in sulky discomfort, snatching sullen little smiles at her child, smiles which came, in spite of her, when she felt its little limbs stirring vigorously on her lap. Bertha, sharp and abrupt, was chiefly concerned with the baby. She scorned her sister, and treated her like dirt. But the infant was a streak of light to her. Miss Rowbotham concerned herself with the function and the conversation. Her hands fluttered; she talked in little volleys exceedingly nervous. Towards the end of the meal, there came a pause. The old man wiped his mouth with his red handkerchief, then, his blue eyes going fixed and staring, he began to speak, in a loose, slobbering fashion, charging his words at the clergyman. “Well, mester—we’n axed you to come her ter christen this childt, an’ you’n come, an’ I’m sure we’re very thankful. I can’t see lettin’ the poor blessed childt miss baptizing, an’ they aren’t for goin’ to church wi’t—” He seemed to lapse into a muse. “So,” he resumed, “we’v axed you to come here to do the job. I’m not sayin’ as it’s not ’ard on us, it is. I’m breakin’ up, an’ mother’s gone. I don’t like leavin’ a girl o’ mine in a situation like ’ers is, but what the Lord’s done, He’s done, an’ it’s no matter murmuring.... There’s one thing to be thankful for, an’ we _are_ thankful for it: they never need know the want of bread.” Miss Rowbotham, the lady of the family, sat very stiff and pained during this discourse. She was sensitive to so many things that she was bewildered. She felt her young sister’s shame, then a kind of swift protecting love for the baby, a feeling that included the mother; she was at a loss before her father’s religious sentiment, and she felt and resented bitterly the mark upon the family, against which the common folk could lift their fingers. Still she winced from the sound of her father’s words. It was a painful ordeal. “It is hard for you,” began the clergyman in his soft, lingering, unworldly voice. “It is hard for you today, but the Lord gives comfort in His time. A man child is born unto us, therefore let us rejoice and be glad. If sin has entered in among us, let us purify out hearts before the Lord....” He went on with his discourse. The young mother lifted the whimpering infant, till its face was hid in her loose hair. She was hurt, and a little glowering anger shone in her face. But nevertheless her fingers clasped the body of the child beautifully. She was stupefied with anger against this emotion let loose on her account. Miss Bertha rose and went to the little kitchen, returning with water in a china bowl. She placed it there among the tea-things.