The Black Cat flourished, and Jude made no attempt to curb his growing
desire for popularity there. He was developing a talent for instructing
his elders, and laying down the law. He was endeavoring to fill
Birkdale's place. Jared had always been the tavern orator. Some one has
to occupy that pedestal in all such places, while the others enjoy their
pipes and mugs in speculative contemplation.

But nothing was as it _had_ been with Joyce. She had the look of one on
the threshold of big happenings. Her pale beauty had a new glow. The
thinness of girlhood had given place to a slender womanhood, all grace
and charm.

She was rarely seen without her baby on her bosom. Even in her work she
managed to bear him on one arm.

Away from her, he wailed pitifully and almost constantly; while pressed
against the warm, loving heart he sank into comfort and peace. When he
was awake his elfish eyes were fixed in solemn stare upon the
mother-face. Not knowingly nor indifferently, but intently, as if from
the depths of past experience he was wondering and endeavouring to
understand.

One evening, and such an evening it was in late July, Joyce, in her low
rocker, the baby on her knees, sat on the piazza facing westward, when
Gaston came around the house, fiddle in hand.

"Alone, Joyce?" It was an idle question, but it would do.

"Yes; Jude seems to have a lot to do about Mr. Drew's house, you know."

Joyce still kept up a pretty defence of Jude. Not that it was in the
least necessary, or even sensible, but it had its part in her detached
and dreamy life.

"The house is about finished," Gaston replied, tuning up the fiddle.
"And then what?" he said, placing the instrument.

"I wonder?" Joyce looked down happily upon her child.

It did not greatly matter, for now Gaston had struck into one of those
compelling airs, so intensely sweet and melodious that it all but hurt;
and the red sunset trembled as the tear-dimmed eyes beheld it.

The tune changed. It danced elfishly, and trippingly--for very joy it
made one laugh. The tear rolled down Joyce's face, as the smile replaced
it, and dropped upon the thin cheek of the baby. He did not flinch, and
the staring eyes did not falter, but something drew the mother's
attention. As the final tripping notes died away, she said softly.

"Mr. Gaston, just look--at the baby."

The child had rarely drawn them together. It was to make her forget the
child--and other things--that Gaston call