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‘Sunday’s child is full of grace . . .’

And–the awkward you are! Here, give him back to me: but feel how far down in his clothes the feet of him reach. Extraordinar’! Aun’ Hessy mounted a chair and climbed ‘pon the chest o’ drawers with him, before takin’ him downstairs; so that he’ll go up in the world, an’ not down.”

“If he wants to try both,” said I, “he’d best follow his father and grandfathers, and live ‘pon a lightship.”

“So this is how you live, Tom; and you, father; and you, father-in-law!” She moved about examining everything–the lantern, the fog-signals and life-buoys, the cooking-stove, bunks and store-cupboards. “To think that here you live, all the menkind belongin’ to me, and I never to have seen it! All the menkind did I say, my rogue! And was I forgettin’ you–you–you?” Kisses here, of course: and then she held the youngster up to look at his face in the light. “Ah, heart of me, will you grow up too to live in a lightship and leave a poor woman at home to weary for you in her trouble? Rogue, rogue, what poor woman have I done this to, bringing you into the world to be her torture and her joy?”

“Dear,” says I, “you’re weak yet. Sit down by me and rest awhile before the time comes to go back.”

“But I’m not going back yet awhile. Your son, sir, and I are goin’ to spend the night aboard.”

“Halloa!” I said, and looked towards Old John, who had made fast astern of us and run a line out to one of the anchor-buoys.

“‘Tisn’t allowed, o’ course,” he muttered, looking in turn and rather sheepishly towards my father. “But once in a way–’tis all Bathsheba’s notion, and you mustn’ ask me,” he wound up.

“‘Once in a way’!” cried Bathsheba. “And is it twice in a way that a woman comes to a man and lays his first child in his arms?”

My father had been studying the sunset and the sky to windward; and now he answered Old John:

“‘Tis once in a way, sure enough, that a boat can lay alongside the Gunnel. But the wind’s falling, and the night’ll be warm. I reckon if you stay in the boat, Old John, she’ll ride pretty comfortable; and I’ll give the word to cast off at the leastest sign.”

“Once in a way”–ah, sirs, it isn’t twice in a way there comes such a night as that was! We lit the light at sunset, and hoisted it, and made tea, talking like children all the while; and my father the biggest child of all. Old John had his share passed out to him, and ate it alone out there in the boat; and, there being a lack of cups, Bathsheba and I drank out of the same, and scalded our lips, and must kiss to make them well. Foolishness? Dear, dear, I suppose so. And the jokes we had, calling out to Old John as the darkness fell, and wishing him “Good night!” “Ou, aye; I hear ‘ee,” was all he answered. After we’d eaten our tea and washed up, I showed Bathsheba how to crawl into her bunk, and passed in the baby and laid it in her arms, and so left her, telling her to rest and sleep. But by and by, as I was keeping watch, she came out, declaring the place stifled her. So I pulled out a mattress and blankets and strewed a bed for her out under the sky, and sat down beside her, watching while she suckled the child. She had him wrapped up so that the two dark eyes of him only could be seen, staring up from the breast to the great bright lantern above him. The moon was in her last quarter, and would not rise till close upon dawn; and the night pitchy dark around us, with a very few stars. In less than a minute Bathsheba gave a start and laid a hand on my arm.