“A fair, fair wind to you and yours,
  No matter the course you sail!”

Ere they had set their glasses down, Harty was making for the door.  Old Perrault entreated.  “Why, Mister Harty!” and Baldwin whispered, “What’s your hurry, Bud?”

“I’ve got to go,” he said to Perrault; to Baldwin he whispered, “Somebody’s coming in—­I heard her voice.”

“Oh, varry well, if you will not stay,” sighed old Perrault.  “But hark!  Attend one moment, gentlemen.  She comes.”  He lowered his voice.  “She goes to-night to the church.  She has, you understand, gentlemen, fears.  And also—­” he leaned over and whispered into Baldwin’s ear.

“No!”

“Truly.”

Baldwin took off his hat and clasped the storekeeper’s hand.  “God keep her.”

“Sh-h—­She is here.”

She stood in the doorway.  It was Harty’s first chance in months to look her fairly in the face.  She smiled on Baldwin, bowed, but without smiling to Harty, kissed her father, whispered a word in his ear, and turned to go.  Baldwin jumped forward.  “Mrs. Bowen, hadn’t me and Mister Harty better see you to the church—­might be a drunken loafer or two on the street—­and a blowy night.”

“I shall be most honored, Captain.”

They went out; but from them all not a word, until they were at the church door, and here it was she who spoke.  “Captain Baldwin, is it not a dangerous night?”

“Meaning at sea, Mrs. Bowen?”

“At sea—­on the light-ship.”

“Why, bless you, no.  Old 67, she’s been out on that spot—­Lord knows how long she’s been out there.  She’s sort of a part of the furniture out there now.  Why, the very fishes that come to feed on South Shoal, Mrs. Bowen—­they’d think they was on the wrong bank if they couldn’t look up and see the barnacled bottom of old 67 over ’em.  Rough?  Lord, yes, plenty rough out there t’night, but not dangerous.  Lord, no, Mrs. Bowen, not dangerous.  All she’s got to do is to hang on to her moorin’s.”

“You are a kind-hearted man, Mr. Baldwin, and a good friend.  My husband, he thinks the world of you.  I go in now, to pray for him, to bring him home to us.  Good-night, and a happy Christmas to you.”  She hesitated, “And to you, Mr. Harty, a happy Christmas also.”

Harty did not close the door behind her until he had seen her kneel at the altar-rail.  Out in the street again, he turned abruptly to his chum.  “Look here, Baldy, what was it her father whispered to you—­just before she came into the backroom?”

“What?  Why-y—­I—­Well, no harm telling it, I reckon, though I don’t know why he didn’t tell you, too, Bud—­she’s goin’—­” Baldwin lowered his voice—­“she’s goin’ to have a baby, and—­what’s it?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh-h!  And her old father, you’ll be hearin’ no more from him about goin’ back to Paris to die.  Gee, but this wind is fierce, ain’t it?  Say, Bud, but d’y’ b’lieve that some people, especially women, that they know without bein’ told when people they think a lot of is in danger?”