Plump Meg had just shredded up two or three red cabbages and rammed them into a crock with a shower of peppercorns and some terrible knots of ginger. There was a bright fire and a sharp odour of vinegar—always some strange pleasant smell in Meg Pavey’s home—she had covered the top of the crock with a shield of brown paper, pinioned that with string, licked a label: “Cabege Novenbr 5t,” and smoothed it on the crock, when the latch lifted and Dan carried in his little tiny boy.
“Here he is, mother.”
Where Dan stood him, there the child remained; he did not seem to see Mother Pavey, his glance had happened to fall on the big crock with the white label—and he kept it there.
“Whoever’s that?” asked the astonished Meg with her arms akimbo as Dan began to unwrap the child.
“That’s mine,” said her son, brushing a few flakes of snow from the curls on its forehead.
“Yours! How long have it been yours?”
“Since ’twas born. No, let him alone, I’ll undo him, he’s full up wi’ pins and hooks. I’ll undo him.”
Meg stood apart while Dan unravelled his offspring.
“But it is not your child, surely, Dan?”
“Ay, I’ve brought him home for keeps, mother. He can sleep wi’ me.”