"May the divil claim his own an' sit her up next ter him down where the both ov thim belongs!" was Bridget's pious wish as she disappeared.

Steve had hardly more than had time to change his clothes, which fortunately had received all the damage in the recent scrimmage, when he saw Nannie hurrying down the road. She was half running, half walking, and her face was so radiantly happy that Steve went out to learn the good tidings she evidently bore. So eager was she to impart her news that she called out before he reached her:

"It's happened! It's happened! It's all over! and it's so little--and the dearest--oh, Steve----"

She could say no more, for her words were cut short just here and her excitement found vent in a happy sob.

"Why, my dear," said Steve, taking her gently by the arm and leading her toward the house.

But Nannie resisted:

"No, no," she cried. "I'm going right back, I only came home for you.

You must go right over. Randolph is wild. Oh, it's so dear and sweet!

Just like a rose! I could smother it with kisses!"

She would hardly let him go for his hat, and all the way over she dragged him along, insisting upon greater speed and chattering in an excited, happy way that was perfectly new and perfectly delightful to Steve.

Randolph was on the lookout for them, and his excitement was no less than Nannie's.

"You must see the pretty little baby, old man," he said after an impetuous hand-shaking.

"Why, yes, do let me see it."

"Don't say _it_," exclaimed Nannie. "It's a little girl."

"Well, my dear--really--you forgot to mention which it was."

Just then Randolph entered with a bundle of shawls, which he reverently and delightedly opened.

All at once his face changed and a look of blank dismay effaced his happy, expectant expression.

"W--why, where is she?" he stammered.

"Randolph Chance!" blazed Nannie, s.n.a.t.c.hing the bundle from him, "I could slap you! You've got her upside down!"

"Oh!" groaned Randolph. "Will it kill her?"

"It may!" said Nannie fiercely. "You've no business with her! Holding her heels up! Poor little thing."

And she laid her face on the tiny human doll and cooed to it, and soothed it, while the father stood there--big, helpless, remorseful, solicitous, and tender.

"Let me take her," said Steve quietly, holding out his hands.

Nannie's first impulse was to say "No" and to press the baby closer to her, but something in Steve's face arrested the word she would have spoken, and she placed the precious little charge in his arms.

"I declare, old man, one would think you had had a dozen at least!"

said Randolph, looking on admiringly.

"It's the first very young child I ever held," said Steve.

Nannie was still. She and Randolph were looking at Steve, and Steve was looking into the little face that lay upon his arm. For a moment no one spoke; then Nannie said abruptly:

"I want to see Constance."

"I'm afraid I can't let you, Nannie," said Randolph. "She doesn't seem quite as well as she did awhile ago."

"Then I must see her," said Nannie emphatically.

"Why, my dear," Steve began gently, "perhaps to-morrow----"

"No, I must see her now. I've something to tell her. It will make her well. I _must_ see her."

She was so determined that Randolph reluctantly consented, and she pa.s.sed into Constance's room, leaving the baby with Steve.

"Constance," said Nannie, stepping up to the bedside, "you are going to get well, aren't you?"

"Why, yes, of course," said Constance.

"I want to tell you, you must. I think it would be wicked to leave the little baby in the world without a mother. No one would ever love her and no one would teach her to do things and how to be good, and she would be so lonely, and she wouldn't know how to come near people and say anything, no matter if her heart was bursting."

And Nannie sank by the bed and wept as a woman does sometimes when her sobs break their way out and she can't stop them.

A flood seemed to pour upon Constance, and in it she saw the lonely, yearning, ignorant child-wife as she really was. She also saw how unjust she herself had been, and pity and remorse laid hold upon her.

"Nannie! dear Nannie--you poor little thing! Come here. I want to tell you that I love you. I never knew you before and Steve loves you if only you would let him."

But Nannie was on her feet again. Her words had been spoken, and all the crudity that had been swept aside for a moment returned in full force and awkwardness. Without even a glance at Constance she abruptly left the room, and in a few moments she and Steve were walking homeward.

XIV

Sarah Maria was gone and baby Chance was thriving. There was bliss enough for any reasonable man, and Steve waxed almost light of heart.

All this had come about with time, and other things might come, too, if time were not interfered with. The news of Sarah's rapid transit had hardly cost Nannie the lifting of an eyebrow. She was so absorbed in the baby that she could well afford to spare her amiable bovine.

Although it was quite late in the fall, Steve was actually contemplating the planting of another crop. Now that the main enemy had withdrawn her horns and heels from the garden, winter seemed a mere bagatelle in the way of opposition--an obstacle too small for reckoning.

But, as poets and prose writers have abundantly proven, Ill Fortune has an ugly habit of coming around a corner with a sudden demoniac swish when least expected and she certainly did this time. Steve was out in his garden drinking in the mellow stillness of an Indian summer twilight, and feeling not really happy perhaps--a man who has a home only in name can hardly be that--but rested and at peace at that particular moment, which is much more than could be a.s.serted of his condition the next, for as he looked down the road he beheld Sarah Maria gamboling along, having in tow at the end of a rope a well-spent, perspiring darky.

"Dis yere yo' cow, ma.s.sa?" asked the weary African as he came up.

Steve hesitated; he was sorely tempted to repudiate madam.

"Ain't yo's Ma.s.sa Lubland?"

Steve nodded in a gloomy manner.