“’Appen for them as is childt-nursin’ it’s none so rosy.” “May I look inside your barge?” asked Ursula. “There’s nobody’ll stop you; you come if you like.” The barge lay at the opposite bank, at the wharf. It was the _Annabel,_ belonging to J. Ruth of Loughborough. The man watched Ursula closely from his keen, twinkling eyes. His fair hair was wispy on his grimed forehead. Two dirty children appeared to see who was talking. Ursula glanced at the great lock gates. They were shut, and the water was sounding, spurting and trickling down in the gloom beyond. On this side the bright water was almost to the top of the gate. She went boldly across, and round to the wharf. Stooping from the bank, she peeped into the cabin, where was a red glow of fire and the shadowy figure of a woman. She _did_ want to go down. “You’ll mess your frock,” said the man, warningly. “I’ll be careful,” she answered. “May I come?” “Ay, come if you like.” She gathered her skirts, lowered her foot to the side of the boat, and leapt down, laughing. Coal-dust flew up. The woman came to the door. She was plump and sandy-haired, young, with an odd, stubby nose. “Oh, you _will_ make a mess of yourself,” she cried, surprised and laughing with a little wonder. “I did want to see. Isn’t it lovely living on a barge?” asked Ursula. “I don’t live on one altogether,” said the woman cheerfully. “She’s got her parlour an’ her plush suite in Loughborough,” said her husband with just pride. Ursula peeped into the cabin, where saucepans were boiling and some dishes were on the table. It was very hot. Then she came out again. The man was talking to the baby. It was a blue-eyed, fresh-faced thing with floss of red-gold hair. “Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked. “It’s a girl—aren’t you a girl, eh?” he shouted at the infant, shaking his head. Its little face wrinkled up into the oddest, funniest smile. “Oh!” cried Ursula. “Oh, the dear! Oh, how nice when she laughs!” “She’ll laugh hard enough,” said the father. “What is her name?” asked Ursula. “She hasn’t got a name, she’s not worth one,” said the man. “Are you, you fag-end o’ nothing?” he shouted to the baby. The baby laughed. “No we’ve been that busy, we’ve never took her to th’ registry office,” came the woman’s voice. “She was born on th’ boat here.” “But you know what you’re going to call her?” asked Ursula. “We did think of Gladys Em’ly,” said the mother. “We thought of nowt o’ th’ sort,” said the father. “Hark at him! What _do_ you want?’ cried the mother in exasperation. “She’ll be called Annabel after th’ boat she was born on.” “She’s not, so there,” said the mother, viciously defiant. The father sat in humorous malice, grinning. “Well, you’ll see,” he said. And Ursula could tell, by the woman’s vibrating exasperation, that he would never give way. “They’re all nice names,” she said. “Call her Gladys Annabel Emily.” “Nay, that’s heavy-laden, if you like,” he answered.