"Oh, daddy! there's a little ugly, old man over there, and he says my name is Coomber. Is it, daddy?"
The fisherman lifted his hat and scratched his head, looking puzzled. Strange to say, this question of the little girl's name had never suggested itself to anybody before, living as they did in this out-of-the-way spot. She was "Tiny," or "deary," or "the little 'un," and no need had arisen for any other name; and so, after scratching his head for a minute, he said: "Well, deary, if I'm your daddy, I s'pose your name is Coomber. But who is the old man?" he asked; for it was not often that strangers were seen at Bermuda Point, even in summer-time.
"I dunno, daddy; but he says he knowed my mother when she was a little gal like me."
Coomber dropped the tar-brush he was using, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. Had somebody come to claim the child after all? He instinctively clutched her hand for a minute, but the next he told her to go home, while he went to speak to the stranger.
He found a little, neatly-dressed old man seated on one of the sandhills, and without a word of preface he began:
"You've come after my little gal, I s'pose?"
The old man smiled. "What's your name, my man?" he said, taking out a pocket-book, and preparing to write.
"Coomber."
"Coomber!" exclaimed the old man, dropping his book in his surprise.
"Why, yes; what should it be?" said the fisherman. "Didn't you tell my little Tiny that you knew her name was Coomber? But how you came to know——"