"Why not do the thing in style while we're about it. What do you say to asking young Mr Cyril to be G.o.dfather?"

If Tom Morrison had looked up then he would have been startled at the livid look in his young wife's face, but he was too intent upon his tea, and Polly recovered herself and said--

"Oh, no, dear, that would not do, and the young ladies would not like it. Look here, Tom."

Polly tripped to a basket, from which she produced a white cloak and hood, trimmed with swan's-down; and these she held up before her husband, flushed and excited, as, in her girlish way, she wondered whether he would like them.

Budge left off eating, and wished for a white dress on the spot, trimmed with silk braid, like that.

"Say," said Tom, thickly, speaking with his mouth fall, "they're fine, arn't they?--cost a lot o' money."

"No," said Polly, gleefully, "they cost nothing, Tom. Miss Julia made me a present of the stuff, and I made them."

"Did you, though?" he said, looking at her little fingers, admiringly.

"You're a clever girl, Polly; but I often wonder how it was you came to take up with a rough chap like me."

Polly looked up in his steady, honest eyes, and rested one hand upon his, and gazed lovingly at him, as he went on--

"My old woman said it was because I'd got a cottage, and an acre of land of my own."

"Did she say so, Tom?"

"Yes," he said, taking her hand, patting it, and gazing up in the pretty rustic face he called his own; "but I told her you were a silly little girl, who would have me if I'd got a cottage and an acre less than nothing to call my own."

"And you told the truth, Tom, dear," she whispered. "Tom, you make me so happy in believing in me like this."

"Tut, tut, my girl. I'm not clever; but I knew you."

"And married me without anything, only enough to buy my wedding dress and a little furniture."

"D'yer call that nothing?" said the hearty, Saxon-faced young fellow, pointing to the baby; "because I don't. And I say, Polly, dear," he whispered, archly, "perhaps that's only the thin end of the wedge."

"Hush, Tom, for shame!" she said, trying to frown, and pointing to Budge; while he took a tremendous bite of bread and bacon, and chuckled hugely at his joke.

"The old lady used to have it that you were too fine for me, Polly, and would have been setting your cap at one of the young gentlemen at the rectory when you was abroad with them."

"Tom!" she panted, as his words seemed to stab her, and she ran out of the room.

"Why, Polly, Polly," he cried, following her and holding her to his breast, "what a touchy little thing thou art since baby came! Why, as if I didn't know that ever since you were so high you were my little sweetheart, and liked great rough me better than the finest gentleman as ever walked. There, there, there! I was a great lout to talk like that to thee. Come, wipe thy eyes."

"I can't bear it, Tom, if you talk like that," she sobbed, smiling at him through her tears. "There, it's all over now."

There was a little cold shiver at Polly Morrison's breast, though, all the same, and it kept returning as she sat there over her work that evening, rocking the cradle with one foot, and wondering whether she could gain strength enough to tell her husband all about Cyril Mallow, and the old days at Dinan.

But no, she could not, and they discussed, as Tom smoked his pipe, the state of affairs at the rectory; how Mrs Mallow remained as great an invalid as ever, and how they seemed to spare no expense, although people had said they went abroad because they had grown so poor.

"Folk seem strange and sore against parson," said Tom at last.

"Then it's very cruel of them, for master is a real good man," cried Polly.

"They don't like it about owd Sammy Warmoth. They say he killed him,"

said Tom, between the puffs of his pipe.

"Such nonsense!" cried Polly; "and him ninety-three."

"Then they are taking sides against him for wanting to get rid of Humphrey Bone."

"And more shame for them," cried Polly, indignantly.

"Well, I don't know," said Tom; "I've rather a liking for old Humphrey.

He taught me."

"He's a nasty wicked old man," cried Polly. "He tried to kiss me one day when he was tipsy."

"He did?" cried Tom, breaking his pipe in the angry rush that seemed to come over him.

"Yes, Tom, and I boxed his ears," said the little woman, shivering again, for the fit of jealous anger did not escape her searching eyes.

"That's right, la.s.s. I'm dead on for a new master now."

Then a discussion arose as to the baby's name, Tom wanting it to be called after his wife, who was set upon Julia, and she carried the day.

"There," said Tom, "if anybody had told me a couple of years ago that any bit of a thing of a girl was going to wheedle me, and twist me round her finger, and do what she liked with me, I should have told him he didn't know what he was talking about."

"And you don't mind, Tom, dear?"

"No," he said, smiling, "I don't mind, if it pleases thee, my la.s.s."

"And it does, dear, very, very much," she said, kissing him.

But Polly Morrison did not feel happy, and several times that night there was the little shiver of dread at her heart, and she wished she could tell Tom all.

PART ONE, CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE BLACK SHADOW.

It was, as Julia Mallow said, a very pretty baby, that of Polly Morrison and her husband, when she spoke to her invalid mother, lying so patiently pa.s.sive upon the couch in her own room; but that weak little morsel of humanity had a part to play in the troubles of the Rev Eli Mallow's life. For hardly had the tiny babe sent to the care of Tom Morrison and his young wife begun to smile upon them, than it was taken suddenly ill.

No childish ailment this, brought on by careless attendance; but the cold grey hand of death was laid upon the fragile form, its little eyes--erst so bright and blue--sunken, and the tiny nose pinched and blue.

Julia and Cynthia Mallow had been in to see her, and found the little woman prostrate with grief, and then hurried to the town for medical advice, though that of fifty doctors would have been in vain.

"Pray, pray, Tom, go and ask Budge not to cry," sobbed Polly, as her husband knelt at her side; for ever and again, from below, came a long, dismal cry, that almost resembled the howl of a dog in a state of suffering.

Tom Morrison rose in a heavy, dull way, and slowly descended the stairs, returning in a minute to resume his place beside his wife, turning his eyes to hers, as they looked up to him in mute agony.