Aunt Phoebe jumped. “What!” cried she:
“Jus’ a baby,” said “By-an’-by” Brown. “Well!—you give that there baby here.”
“I’ll be glad t’, ma’am,” said young “By-an’-by” Brown, in childish tenderness, still withholding the bundle from the woman’s extended arms, “but not for keeps.”
“For keeps!” Aunt Phoebe snorted.
“No, ma’am; not for keeps. I’m ’lowin’ t’ fetch it up myself,” said “By-an’-by” Brown, “by-an’-by.”
“Dunderhead!” Aunt Phoebe whispered, softly.
And “By-an’-by” Brown, familiar with the exigency, obediently went in.
Then there were lights in the cottages of Blunder Cove: instantly, it seemed. And company—and tea and hard bread and chatter—in Skipper Tom Luff’s little white kitchen. A roaring fire in the stove: a kettle that sang and chuckled and danced, glad once more to be engaged in the real business of life. So was the cradle—glad to be useful again, though its activity had been but for an hour suspended. It went to work in a business-like way, with never a creak, in response to the gentle toe of “By-an’-by” Brown’s top-boot. There was an inquisition, too, through which “By-an’-by” Brown crooned to the baby, “Hush-a-by!” and absently answered, “Uh-huh!” and “By-an’-by!” as placid as could be. Concerning past troubles: Oh, they was—yesterday. And of future difficulties: Well, they was—by-an’-by. “Hush-a-by!” and “By-an’-by!” So they gave him a new name—“By-an’-by” Brown—because he was of those whose past is forgot in yesterday and whose future is no more inimical than—well, jus’ by-an’-by.
“By-an’-by” Brown o’ Blunder Cove—paddle-punt fishin’ the Blow-me-down grounds....