"Her lives. Her moves on my bosom," cried Sibley. "Look at 'em, master. Did ye ever see the like?"
"What made you kinder, Sibley, more attentive to me, soft and tender?"
"'Twur the child coming, master."
"What made you sober, Oliver, fond of your wife? What was it stopped the quarelling?"
"I minded the little child, master."
There was something tender in their illiterate speech.
"You cast her away. The sin is mine, so is the atonement. And she is mine."
"She'm mine, master," murmured Sibley.
"I found her among my flowers, the reward of my searching. She is the answer," he said. "Let her be to you the daughter of love, and to me the daughter of violence. Oliver," he cried, turning, "bring up water from the pixy-stream. As the sun rises I will baptise—my child."
"Yew'm fond o' she, master?"