Then Stephen told his errand. "I shall come to have give you something," he said, trying to speak in English.
Adam's wife raised her eyes and glanced over him. Adam himself laid down his pipe and held out his hand towards Sunlocks. But Stephen held the child back a moment and spoke again.
"It's all I shall have got to give," he said.
"What is it?" said Adam.
"The child," said Stephen, and passed little Sunlocks to Adam's outstretched hand.
At that Adam's wife dropped her knitting to her lap, but Stephen, seeing nothing of the amazement written in her face, went on in his broken words to tell them all—of his wife's life, her death, his own sore temptation, and the voice out of heaven that had called to him. And then with a moistened eye and a glance at Sunlocks, and in a lowered tone as if fearing the child might hear, he spoke of what he meant to do now—of how he would go back to the herrings, and maybe to sea, or perhaps down into the mines, but never again to Port-y-Vullin. And because a lone man was no company for a child, and could not take a little one with him if he would, he had come to it at last that he must needs part with little Sunlocks, lending him, or maybe giving him, to some one he could trust.
"And so," he said huskily, "I shall say to me often and often, 'The Governor is a good man and kind to me long, long ago, and I shall give little Sunlocks to him.'"
He had dropped his head into his breast as he spoke, and being now finished, he stood fumbling his scraggy goatskin cap.
Then Adam's wife, who had listened in mute surprise, drew herself up, took a long breath, looked first at Stephen, then at Adam, then back at Stephen, and said in a bated whisper, "Well! Did any living soul ever hear the like in this island before?"
Not rightly understanding what this might mean, poor Stephen looked back at her in his weak, dazed way, but made her no answer.
"Children might be scarce," she said, and gave a little angry toss of her head.
Still the meaning of what she said had not worked its way through Stephen's slow wit, and he mumbled in his poor blundering fashion, "He is all I have, ma'am."
"Lord-a-massy, man," she cried sharply, "but we might have every child in the parish at your price."
Stephen's fingers now clutched at his cap, his parted lips
