"I have neglected it for long," he said. "I shall never again. I think she will like us to keep it. She and—our boy."
He laid his hand on the baby's head, but his eyes wandered dreamily away out beyond the sea.
The day was fuller of cheerfulness and pleasure than even the lonely old sailor had hoped; the two people in whom he was beginning to confine his whole interest were happy in a way he could not fathom; he could not understand why Jacobus should look and listen to his wife so hungrily.
"It was the child that the day gave to him, not 'Sharley,' as he calls her," thought Lufflin.
So he took the baby in his arms, feeling as if it were in some sort neglected.
"I like to think," he said, after looking in its face awhile, and speaking with an effort, as he always did, about "religion,"—"I like to think of Christ as a helpless baby; that's the reason I like Christmas for."
"To think," said Charlotte, softly, "that to-day Eternal Love came into the world!—and Life!" glancing at her husband.
But Jacobus did not speak; he had his face covered with his hand, and when he looked up was paler than before. Lufflin fancied there was a change in the simple-hearted old bookworm's manner all day, a quiet composure, the dignity of a man who knew his place both with God and his brother man.
He went down again presently, leaving them alone for a little while. M. Jacobus was standing by the window, watching the awful stillness with which a new day lifts itself over the sea; he had the child in his arms, and beckoned Lotty to his side. She came and leaned her head on his shoulder.
"You will never leave me now, Sharley,—never," he said, his face kindling with a new, strange triumph.