"Tom," said one of the younger ones, "bring her out 'n' let's see her.

You've been braggin' on her all day, but ye hain't let us see her."

Half a dozen others joined in the cry.

"Yes," they said, "bring her out, Tom."

Tom did not rise from his seat. He tilted his chair back and balanced himself on his heels, his hands thrust into his pockets.

"Boys," he said, "I'll bring her out on one condition, and that is that there shall be no shines. I wouldn't have her scared or upset for a good deal. There's a joke in this sort of thing, I daresay; but it ain't all joke. If I bring her out and show her, there's to be no crowding and no row."

It was agreed that there should be none, and he left his chair and went to the inner room again. When he returned, the men who had been lounging in the porch had come in, though perhaps not one among them understood his own unusual interest in the affair. Babies were not rarities in Hamlin County, every cabin and farm-house in the region being filled to overflowing with white-headed, sunburnt youngsters. And yet when Tom appeared there was a moment of silence. The child was asleep, its tiny black head resting peacefully against the huge chest of its bearer. There was no trace of confusion or awkwardness in his face, he seemed well content with his burden, and perhaps it was the quiet of his manner as much as anything else which caused the slight hush to fall upon those around him.

At last a middle-aged farmer stepped forward. He gave the child a long and rather curious look.

"Gal, ain't it?" he enquired.

"Yes," Tom answered.

"Wal, 'tain't a bad thing fer her she's got some un to stan' by her; gals needs it."

Tom gave her a long look too. She was sleeping very quietly; it might have been her mother's breast she was lying against.

"Well," he said, "here's a man to stand by her," and then he raised his head and looked at the rest of them.

"Boys," he said, "that's a promise. Remember it."

And he carried her back.

CHAPTER VI

The rooms at the back had never seemed so quiet before as when, at the close of the day, he went into them. They seemed all the quieter by contrast with the excitement of the past hours. In the kitchen Mornin was giving the final touches to the supper, and in the room which was at once sitting-room and bedroom, the wooden cradle had fitted itself in a corner near the fireplace and wore an air of permanent establishment remarkable to contemplate when one considered how unlooked-for an incident it was.

On the threshold of this apartment Tom paused a moment. Such silence reigned that he could hear the soft, faint breathing of the child as it lay asleep. He stopped a second or so to listen to it. Then he stooped down, and began to loosen his shoes gently. As he was doing it, Mornin caught sight of him in passing the open door.

"Mars Tom," she said, "what's ye a-gwine fer to do?"

"I'm going to take them off," he answered, seriously. "They'll make too much noise."

The good soul in the kitchen chuckled.

"Now," she said, "now, Mars Tom, dar ye go right now a-settin' out to ruinate a good chile, 'stead o' ustin' it ter things--a-settin' out ter ruinate it. Don't never tip aroun' fer no chile. Don't ye never do it, 'n' ye won't never haf ter. Tippin' roun' jest spiles 'em. Tell ye, Mornin never tipped roun' when she had em' ter raise. Mornin started out right from de fust."

Tom looked at the cradle.

"She'll rest easier," he said. "And so shall I. I must get a pair of slippers." And he slipped out of his shoes and stood ready to spend the evening in his stocking-feet. A solitary tallow candle stood upon the table, shedding its yellow light upon all surrounding objects to the best of its ability, and, seeing that its flickering brightness fell upon the small sleeper's face, he placed it at the farther end of the high mantel.

"She'll be more comfortable," he said. And then sat down feeling at ease with his conscience.

Mornin went back to her supper shaking her head.

"By de time she's a year old, dar won't be no managin' her," she said.

"Da's allus de way wid de men folks, allus too hard or too soft; better leav' her to Mornin 'n' ust'n her to things right at de start."

There seemed little chance that she would be so "ustened." Having finished his supper, Tom carried his pipe and newspaper into the kitchen.

"I'll sit here awhile," he said. "The smoke might be too much for her, and the paper rustles so. We'd better let her have her sleep out."

But when the pipe was out and the last page of the paper read, he went back to his own room. The small ark stranded in his chimney corner was attractive enough to draw him there. It was a stronger attraction than it would have been to most men. He had always been fond of children and curious concerning them. There was not a child in the surrounding region who had not some remembrance of his rather too lavish good-nature. A visit to the Cross-roads was often held out as a reward for circumspect behaviour, and the being denied the treat was considered punishment heavy enough for most juvenile crimes.

"Ef ye'd had young uns of yer own, Tom, ye'd hev ruined them, shore," the secretly delighted matrons frequently remarked. "You'd let 'em run right over ye. I reckon ye keep that candy thar right a-purpose to feed 'em on now, don't yer?"

His numerous admirers, whose affection for him was founded on their enjoyment of his ponderous witticisms and the humour which was the little leavening of their unexciting lives, had once or twice during the past few days found themselves unprepared for, and so somewhat bewildered by, the new mood which had now and then revealed itself.

"It's kinder outer Tom's way to take things like he takes this; it looks onnat'ral," they said.

If they had seen him as he drew up to the cradle's side, they would have discovered that they were confronting a side of the man of which they knew nothing. It was the man whose youth had been sore-hearted and desolate, while he had been too humble to realise that it was so, and with reason. If he had known lonely hours in the past eight years, only the four walls of the little back room had seen them. He had always enacted his _role_ well outside; but it was only natural that the three silent rooms must have seemed too empty now and again. As he bent over the cradle, he remembered such times, and somehow felt as if they were altogether things of the past and not to trouble him again.

"She'll be life in the place," he said. "When she sleeps less and is old enough to make more noise, it will be quite cheerful."

He spoke with the self-congratulating innocence of inexperience. A speculative smile settled upon his countenance.

"When she begins to crawl around and--and needs looking after, it will be lively enough," he reflected. "She'll keep us busy, I daresay."

It was a circumstance perhaps worthy of mention that he never spoke of the little creature as "it."

"She'll need a good deal of looking after," he went on. "It won't do to let her tumble around and take care of herself, as a boy might. We must be tender of her."

He bent forward and drew the cover cautiously over the red flannel sleeve.

"They think it a good joke, those fellows," he said; "but it isn't a joke with us, is it, young woman? We've a pretty big job to engineer between us, but I daresay we shall come out all right. We shall be good friends in the end, and that's a pretty nice thing for a lonely fellow to look forward to."

Then he arose stealthily and returned to the kitchen.

"I want you to tell me," he said to Mornin, "what she needs. I suppose she needs something or other."

"She needs mos' ev'rything, Mars Tom," was the answer; "seems like she hain't bin pervided fer 't all, no more 'n ef she was a-gwine ter be a youn' tukky dat de Lord hisself hed fitted out at de start."

"Well," said Tom, "I'll go to Barnesville to-morrow and talk to Judge Rutherford's wife about it. She'll know what she ought to have."

And, after a few moments given to apparently agreeable reflection, he went back to the room he had left.

He had barely seated himself, however, when he was disturbed by a low-sounding tap on the side door, which stood so far open as to allow of any stray evening breeze entering without reaching the corner of the chimney.

"Come in!" said Tom, not in a friendly roar, as usual, but in a discreetly guarded voice.