Sometimes, when she had dressed him in his Sunday suit, and they were alone together, Clarice would put upon his finger the pearl ring,—­her marriage ring.  But she kept to herself the name of Luke Merlyn till the time should come when, a child no longer, he should listen to the story; and she would not make that story grievous for his gentle heart, but sweet and full of hope.  Well she knew how he would listen as none other could,—­how serious his young face would look when the sacred dawn of a celestial knowledge should begin to break; then a new day would rise on Gabriel, and nothing should separate them then.

But, lurking near her joy, and near her perfect satisfaction, even in the days when some result much toiled for seemed to give assurance that she was doing well and justly, was the shadow of a doubt.  One day the shadow deepened, and the doubt appeared.  Clarice was sitting in the doorway, busy at some work for Gabriel.  The boy was playing with Old Briton, who could amuse him by the hour, drawing figures in the sand.  Dame Briton was busy performing some household labor, when Bondo Emmins came rowing in to shore.  Gabriel, at the sound of the oars, ran to meet the fisherman, who had been out all day; the fisherman took the child in his arms, kissed him, then placed in his hands a toy which he had brought for him from the Point, and bade him run and show it to Clarice.  Gabriel set out with shouts, and Emmins went back smiling to look after his boatload.

“He’s a good runner,” said Old Briton, watching the child with laughter in his eyes.  Dame Briton, drawn to the door by the unusual noise, looked out to see the little fellow flying into Clarice’s arms, and she said, softly, “Pretty creature!” while she strode back to her toil.

Presently, the little flutter of his joy having subsided, Gabriel sat on the doorstep beside Clarice, his eyes seriously peering into the undiscoverable mystery of the toy.  Then Bondo came up, and the toy was forgotten, the child darting away again to meet him.  Emmins joined the group with Gabriel in his arms, looking well satisfied.

“Gabriel is as happy as if this was his home in earnest,” said he.  He dropped the words to try the group.

“His home!” cried Dame Briton, quickly.  “Well, ain’t it?  Where then?  I wonder.”

The sharp tone of her voice told that the dame was not well pleased with Bondo’s remark; for the child had found his way into her heart, and she would have ruined him by her indulgence, had it not been for Clarice’s constant vigilance.  And this was not the least of the difficulties the girl had to contend with.  For Dame Briton, you may be sure, though she might be compelled to yield to her daughter’s better sense, could never be constrained by her own child to hold her tongue, and the arguments with which she abandoned many of her foolish purposes were almost as fatal to Clarice’s attempts at good government as the perfect accomplishment of these purposes would have been.