"And so," he said, huskily, "I shall say to me often and often, 'The Governor is a good man and kind to me long, long ago, and I shall give little Sunlocks to him.'"
He had dropped his head into his breast as he spoke, and being now finished he stood fumbling his scraggy goatskin cap.
Then Adam's wife, who had listened in mute surprise, drew herself up, took a long breath, looked first at Stephen, then at Adam, then back at Stephen, and said in a bated whisper—
"Well! Did any living soul ever hear the like in this island before?"
Not rightly understanding what this might mean, poor Stephen looked back at her, in his weak, dazed way, but made her no answer.
"Children might be scarce," she said, and gave a little angry toss of her head.
Still the meaning of what she said had not worked its way through Stephen's slow wit, and he mumbled in his poor blundering fashion:
"He is all I have, ma'am."
"Lord-a-massy, man," she cried, sharply, "but we might have every child in the parish at your price."
Stephen's fingers now clutched at his cap, his parted lips quivered, and again he floundered out, stammering like an idiot: