He drew her hands to his lips.
"And what shall she be christened?" the mother asked. "I'd like her to be called Mary," she went on breathlessly. "You wouldn't think that a common name, would you? 'Mary Flower,' I think that's a pretty name."
The doctor came in at this moment to suggest that Edward had stayed long enough for the present. The father leant over to kiss the eyes of that pale mother.
"Well, have 'ee seen her?" demanded the great-grandfather when Edward came downstairs. "I suppose it is a girl all right?"
"Mary," said Edward.
"Oh, Mary, is it to be? Well, that's a good down-right honest style of name for a girl. Yes, 'tis a name I like very well. And don't you be discouraged, Mr. Edward, if she don't look beautiful all at once. A calf's different. A new-born calf is a pretty sight for any man. So's a chicken fresh from the egg. But a baby is so ugly as a young rook. Oh dear, oh dear, there's few more ugly sights for man to look upon than a new-born baby. Yet I suppose this time come three months we shall all be looking at kangaroos and wobblies, and they're worse by what one reads of 'em."
Old James had got hold of one or two volumes of Antipodean travel, from dipping into which behind a pair of large horn spectacles he had formed a picture of Australia as zoölogically rich as a medieval illuminator's conception of Eden.
Now that Elizabeth's child was safely born, it was imperative to leave England before the money gave out, and berths were secured in the Wizard Queen, a 1,000-ton steamer lying in the East India Docks, which was due to sail on February 18th for the port of Sydney. They went on board the preceding afternoon; but remembering their last experience in the Mariana and with a desire to avert ill-luck they kept themselves out of sight of the other emigrants who, like those on the Mersey, were drowning the sorrow of departure in music and song. As a matter of fact, old James could not resist going up on deck to have a bit of fun, as he called it; but Edward and Elizabeth remained close in their cabin, and did not even emerge for supper.
After supper the strains of music that floated down below became more melancholy, so that Elizabeth shivered. Edward, always solicitous, begged her to tell him what was the matter. Did she feel nervous after that alarming night on the Mersey? Did she regret that she had married him? Was not the baby Mary sleeping soundly in her canvas cot, and was she not so wonderful a being that sighs should be forgotten in the contemplation of the future they two would sacrifice all to achieve for her?
"I was thinking of you, Edward," she said. "I was wondering if I had done wrong in marrying you, so that you have had to leave your family and your country for my sake."