“When all’s said, you caan’t look tu far ahead or be tu forehanded wi’ bwoys,” resumed Will.  “Gallopin’ down-long I said to myself, ’Theer’s things he may do an’ things he may not do.  He shall choose his awn road in reason, but he must be guided by me in the choice.’  I won’t let un go for a sailor—­never.  I’ll cut un off wi’ a shillin’ if he thinks of it.”

“Time enough when he can walk an’ talk, I reckon,” said Billy, who, seeing how his master viewed the matter, now caught Mr. Lyddon’s manner.

“Ess, that’s very well,” continued Will, “but time flies that fast wi’ childer.  Then I thought, ‘He’ll come to marry some day, sure’s Fate.’  Myself, I believe in tolerable early marryin’s.”

“By God!  I knaw it!” retorted Mr. Lyddon, with an expression wherein appeared mingled feelings not a few; “Ess, fay!  You’m right theer.  I should take Time by the forelock if I was you, an’ see if you can find a maiden as’ll suit un while you go back-along through the village.”

“Awnly, as ’tis better for the man to number more years than the wummon,” added Billy, “it might be wise to bide a week or two, so’s he shall have a bit start of his lady.”

“Now, you’m fulin me!  An’ I caan’t stay no more whether or no, ’cause I was promised to see Phoebe an’ my son in the arternoon.  Us be gwaine to call un Vincent William Blanchard, arter you an’ me, Miller; an’ if it had been a gal, us meant to call un arter mother; an’ I do thank God ’bout the wee bwoy in all solemn soberness, ’cause ’tis the fust real gude thing as have falled to us since the gwaine of poor Chris.  ’Twill be a joy to my mother an’ a gude gran’son to you, I hope.”

“Go home, go home,” said Mr. Lyddon.  “Get along with ‘e this minute, an’ tell your wife I’m greatly pleased, an’ shall come to see her mighty soon.  Let us knaw every day how she fares—­an’—­an’—­I’m glad as you called the laddie arter me.  ’Twas a seemly thought.”

Will departed, and his mind roamed over various splendid futures for his baby.  Already he saw it a tall, straight, splendid man, not a hair shorter than his own six feet two inches.  He hoped that it would possess his natural wisdom, augmented by Phoebe’s marvellous management of figures and accounts.  He also desired for it a measure of his mother’s calm and stately self-possession before the problems of life, and he had no objection that his son should reflect Miller Lyddon’s many and amiable virtues.

He returned home, and his mother presently bid him come to see Phoebe.  Then a sudden nervousness overtook Will, tough though he was.  The door shut, and husband and wife were alone together, for Damaris disappeared.  But where were all those great and splendid pictures of the future?  Vanished, vanished in a mist.  Will’s breast heaved; he saw Phoebe’s star-bright eyes peeping at him, and he touched the treasure beside her—­oh, so small it was!

He bent his head low over them, kissed his wife shyly, and peeped with proper timidity under the flannel.