“My baby,” Mary began to call him.  She had to preside at the great dinner, but was not visible to her family for hours before and after.

It was a better Christmas to Guthrie Carey in the end than in the beginning.  Deb came back from church chastened in spirit, to make up to him for her unkindness, on the score of which her warm heart had reproached her.  She made him play billiards with her after tea, while Claud was resting after his labours; she chaffed him deliciously on his errors in the game.  She forgot to ask after his baby; but she asked whether it would not be possible to get his leave extended.  When he said “No”—­he had had more than his share already—­she commended him for his sense of duty, and in her seriousness was more enchanting than in her fun.

“But I do wish we could have kept you longer,” she flattered him, in her sweet way.  “However, we shall have a hostage for your return.”

Several new people came to dinner, including Mr Goldsworthy and Ruby—­ the latter sent at once, by Deb’s command, to keep little Carey company.  Spacious Redford was taxed to the utmost to accommodate its guests, and never was better Christmas cheer provided in the old hall of English Redford than its son in exile dispensed under his Australian roof.  When every leaf was put into the dining-table, it was so long that Mary at one end was beyond speaking distance of her father at the other, and those at the sides could scarce use their elbows as they ate.  The banquet was prodigious, with speeches to wind up with (Mr Goldsworthy, in his oration, disgusted Deb by referring to the host as “princely”, and to the ladies of the house as his “bevy of beautiful daughters"); and if the truth must be told, the crowning ceremony of the loving cup was a bit superfluous.  It found the host already fuddled beyond a doubt, and several of the guests under suspicion of being so.  But in the opinion of all, Redford had celebrated Christmas in an unsurpassably proper manner.

Two mornings later, a waggonette was packed with luggage and four passengers—­Mary Pennycuick, Guthrie Carey, the baby and the baby’s little nurse.  They proceeded in a body to the overseer’s house, where the load was halved.  Mary, the baby, and one box were left with Mrs Kelsey (reinforced by the collie puppy and a plate of sugared strawberries); the sailor and the nursemaid, after a few poignant moments, went on to a distant railway station.

“Have an easy mind,” said Mary, outside the parlour door.  “He will be well off with her, and we shall all be looking after him.”

“How can I thank you?” said the parting guest, barely able to articulate.  He wrung her hand, and looked at her kind, red face with feelings unspeakable.  “God bless you!  God reward you for your goodness to the little chap and me.”

He was including all the family in his benediction, and it was the father in him that was so touched and overcome.  None the less, she accepted the tribute for her own, and to her poverty-stricken womanhood it was wealth indeed.