THE FISHERMANS HOME.

"Why, mother, are you here?" Coomber spoke in a stern, reproachful tone,rnfor he had found his wife and the cowering children huddled together inrnthe corner of the old shed where the family washing and variousrnfish-cleaning operations were usually carried on; and the sight did notrnplease him.rnrn"Are yer all gone mad that yer sitting out there wi' the rain drippin'rnon yer, when yer might be dry an' comfortable, and have a bit o'rnbreakfast ready for a feller when he comes home after a tough job suchrnas I've had?"rnrn"I--I didn't know when you was coming to breakfast," said Mrs. Coomber,rntimidly, and still keeping close in the corner of the shed for fear herrnhusband should knock her down; while the children stopped their mutualrngrumblings and complaints, and crept closer to each other behind theirrnmother's skirts.rnrn"Couldn't you ha' got it ready and waited wi' a bit o' fire to dry thesernduds?" exclaimed her husband.rnrn"But the boat, Coomber, it wasn't safe," pleaded the poor woman. "Wernmight ha' been adrift any minute."rnrn"Didn't I tell yer she was safe, and didn't I ought to know when arnboat's safe better nor you--a poor tool of a woman? Come out of it," hernadded, impatiently, turning away.rnrnThe children wondered that nothing worse than hard words fell to theirrnshare, and were somewhat relieved that the next question referred tornBob, and not to their doings.rnrn"You say he ain't come home?" said Coomber.rnrn"I ain't seen him since he went with you to Fellness. Ain't you justrncome from there?" said his wife, timidly.rnrn"Of course I have, but Bob ought to have been back an hour or so ago,rnfor I had something to do in the village. Come to the boat, and I'llrntell you all about it," he added, in a less severe tone; for the thoughtrnof the child he had rescued softened him a little, and he led the wayrnout of the washing-shed.rnrnThe storm had abated now, and the boat no longer rocked and swayed, sornthat the children waded back through the mud without fear, while theirrnfather talked of the little girl he had left with Dame Peters atrnFellness. They listened to his proposal to bring her home and sharerntheir scanty meals with very little pleasure, and they wished theirrnmother would say she could not have another baby; but instead of thisrnMrs. Coomber assented at once to her husband's plan of fetching thernchild from Fellness that afternoon.rnrnThe Coombers were not a happy family, for the fisherman was a stern,rnhard man by nature, and since he had lost his little girl he had becomernharder, his neighbours said. At all events, his wife and children grewrnmore afraid of him--afraid of provoking his stern displeasure by any ofrnthose little playful raids children so delight in; and every one of themrnlooked forward to the day when they could run away from home and go tornsea, as their grown-up brother had done. Bob, the eldest now at home,rnwas already contemplating taking this step very soon, and had promisedrnto help Dick and Tom when they were old enough. It had been a startlingrnrevelation to Bob to hear his father speak as he had done on the beachrnat Fellness about his brother, for he had long ago decided that hisrnfather did not care a pin for any of them, unless it was for the babyrnsister who had died, and even of that he was not quite sure. He had madernup his mind, as he walked through the storm that morning, that he wouldrnnot go back again, but make his way to Grimsby, or some other seaportrntown, after his business at Fellness was done. But what he had heard onrnthe beach from his father somewhat shook his purpose, and when hernlearned from Dame Peters afterwards, that the child they had rescued wasrnto share their home, he thought he would go back again, and try to bearrnthe hard life a little longer, if it was only to help his mother, andrntell her his father did care for them a bit in spite of his stern, hardrnways.rnrnPerhaps Mrs. Coomber did not need to be told that her husband loved herrnand his children; at all events, she received Bob's information with arnnod and a smile, and a whispered word. "Yer father's all right, and arnrare good fisherman," she said; for in spite of the frequent unkindnessrnshe experienced, Mrs. Coomber was very fond of her husband.rnrn"Ah, he's a good fisherman, but he'd be all the better if he didn't havernso much of that bottle," grumbled Bob; "he thinks a deal more about thatrnthan he does about us."rnrnIt was true enough what Bob said. If his father could not by any chancernget his bottle replenished, wife and children had a little respite fromrntheir usual hard, driving life, and he was more civil to their onlyrnneighbours, who were at the farm about half a mile off; but once thernbottle got filled again, he grew sullen and morose, or quarrelsome. Hernhad recently made himself very disagreeable to Farmer Hayes in one ofrnhis irritable fits, a fact which suddenly recurred to his wife when shernheard of the sick child being brought home to her to nurse, but sherndared not mention it to her husband. When Coomber brought the child thatrnafternoon, he said, gaily: "Here's a present for yer from the sea,rnmother; maybe she'll bring us good luck coming as she did."rnrn"It 'ud be better luck if we'd picked up a boat," muttered Bob, who wasrnstanding near.rnrn"Why, she ain't such a baby as you said," exclaimed Mrs. Coomber, as shernunpinned the shawl in which she was wrapped; "she is about five."rnrn"Five years old," repeated Coomber; "but she'd talk if she was as old asrnthat, and Dame Peters told me she'd just laid like a dead thing everrnsince she'd been there."rnrn"She's ill, that's what it is, poor little mite--ill and frightened outrnof her senses;" and Mrs. Coomber gathered her in her arms, and kissedrnthe little white lips, and pressed her to her bosom, as only a tenderrnmother can, while the boys stood round in wondering silence, and Coomberrndashed a tear from his eye as he thought of the little daughter lying inrnFellness churchyard. But he was ashamed of the love that prompted thisrnfeeling, and said hastily: "Now, mother, we mustn't begin by spoilingrnher;" but then he turned away, and called Bob to go with him and lookrnafter the boat.rnrnFor several days the child continued very ill--too ill to noticernanything, or to attempt to talk; but one day, when she was lying on Mrs.rnCoomber's lap before the fire, the boys mutely looking at her as shernlay, she suddenly put up her little hands, and said in a feeble whisper,"Dear faver Dod, tate tare o' daddy and mammy, and Tiny;" and then shernseemed to drop off into a doze.rnrnThe boys were startled, and Mrs. Coomber looked down hastily at thernlittle form on her lap, for this was the first intimation they had hadrnthat the child could talk, although Mrs. Coomber fancied that she hadrnshowed some signs of recognising her during the previous day.rnrn"I say, did you hear that?" whispered Dick. "Was she saying her prayers,rnmother, like Harry Hayes does?"rnrnMrs. Coomber nodded, while she looked down into the child's face andrnmoved her gently to and fro to soothe her to sleep.rnrn"But, mother, ought she to say that? Did you hear her? She said 'dearrnGod,'" said Dick, creeping round to his mother's side.rnrnMrs. Coomber was puzzled herself at the child's words. They had awakenedrnin her a far-off memory of days when she was a girl, and knelt at herrnmother's knee, and said, "Our Father," before she went to bed. But thatrnwas long before she had heard of Bermuda Point, or thought of havingrnboys and girls of her own. When they came she had forgotten all aboutrnthose early days; and so they had never been taught to say theirrnprayers, or anything else, in fact, except to help their father with thernboat, shoot wild-fowl in the winter, and gather samphire on the shorernduring the summer.rnrnShe thought of this now, and half wished she had thought of it before.rnPerhaps if she had tried to teach her children to pray, they would havernbeen more of a comfort to her. Perhaps Jack, her eldest, would not havernrun away from home as he did, leaving them for years to wonder whetherrnhe was alive or dead, but sending no word to comfort them.rnrnThe boys were almost as perplexed as their mother. The little they hadrnheard of God filled them with terror, and so to hear such a prayer asrnthis was something so startling that they could think and talk ofrnnothing else until their father came in, when, as usual, silence fell onrnthe whole family, for Coomber was in a sullen mood now.rnrnThe next day Tiny, as she had called herself, was decidedly better. Arnlittle bed had been made up for her in the family living-room, and shernlay there, quiet but observant, while Mrs. Coomber went about herrnwork--cooking and cleaning and mending, and occasionally stopping tornkiss the little wistful face that watched her with such quiet curiosity.rnrn"Am I in a s'ip now?" the child asked at length, when Mrs. Coomber hadrnkissed her several times.rnrn"You're in a boat, deary; but you needn't be afraid; our boat is safernenough."rnrn"I ain't afraid; Dod is tatin' tare of me," said the child, with arnlittle sigh.rnrnMrs. Coomber wondered whether she was thinking of the storm; whether sherncould tell them who she was, and where her friends might be found; andrnshe ventured to ask her several questions about this, but failed tornelicit any satisfactory answer. The child was sleepy, or had forgottenrnwhat Mrs. Coomber thought she would be sure to remember; but it wasrnevident she had taken notice of her surroundings during the last fewrndays, for after a little while she said, "Where's der boys--dat Dick andrnTom?"rnrnMrs. Coomber was amused. "They're out in the boat looking after thernnets," she said.rnrn"When they toming home?" asked the little girl; "home to dis boat, Irnmean," she added.rnrn"Oh, they'll come soon," replied Mrs. Coomber. "But, now, can't you tellrnme something about your mother and father, and where you lived, myrndeary?" she asked again.rnrn"I tomed in a s'ip, and 'ou my mammy now," said the child, looking roundrnthe cosy room with perfect content.rnrn"But where is your own mammy, who taught you to say your prayers?" askedrnMrs. Coomber.rnrnThe tears came into the sweet blue eyes for a minute as she said, "Seerndorn up dere, to tay in Dod's house, and Tiny do too if see a dood dal."rnrnMrs. Coomber laid down the jacket she was patching, and kissed thernserious little face. "Is your mother dead, my deary?" she asked, whilernthe tears shone in her own eyes.rnrn"See done to see daddy, and tell him about Tiny," answered the child;rnfrom which Mrs. Coomber gathered that mother and father were both dead;rnand when her husband came home she told him what she had heard, whichrnseemed to afford the old fisherman a good deal of satisfaction.rnrn"Then she's ours safe enough, mother," he said, rubbing his hands, "andrnwhen she gets well she'll toddle about the old boat like our own littlernPolly did."rnrn"But I thought you said Peters was going to see the newspaper man torntell him to put something in the _Stamford Mercury_ about finding her,rnso that her friends should know she was saved, and come and fetch her."rnrn"I said her mother or father," interrupted Coomber, sharply; "but ifrnthey're dead, there ain't anybody else likely to want such a little 'un,rnand so we may keep her, I take it. But Peters shall go to the newspaperrnman, never fear," added Coomber; "I don't want to rob anybody of thernlittle 'un; but if nobody don't come in a week, why then, Mary----" andrnCoomber paused, and looked at his wife.rnrn"Well, then, I'll get out little Polly's things; they'll just about fitrnher," said Mrs. Coomber, hastily wiping her eyes with her apron for fearrnher husband should reproach her again for her tears.rnrnWhen the boys came in, the little girl said, shyly, "Tome and tell mernabout the nets."rnrnDick looked at her, and then at his mother.rnrn"What does she mean?" he asked, drawing near the little bed where Tinyrnlay.rnrn"She wants to know about the fishing," said Mrs. Coomber. "Have you hadrna good take, Dick?" asked his mother, rather anxiously, for she wantedrnsome more milk for Tiny, and her little secret store of halfpence wasrngone now.rnrn"Oh, it ain't much," said Dick; "Bob has taken a few plaice to Fellness,rnand I dessay he'll bring back some bread or some flour."rnrn"But I want some milk for the child; she can't eat bread and fish andrnpotatoes now she's ill. Couldn't you run up to the farm, Dick, and askrnMrs. Hayes if she wants a bit o' fish, and I'll be thankful for a droprno' milk for it."rnrnBut Dick looked dubious. "I'd like to go," he said, "if it was only tornhave a word with Harry Hayes, and ask him about his rabbits; but fatherrndon't like the farm people now, and he said I was never to speak tornthem. You know they've had a quarrel."rnrn"Well, what are we to do? They are our only neighbours, and they ain't arnbad sort either, Mrs. Hayes is a kind soul, who has children of her own,rnand would let me have milk in a minute if she knew I wanted it for thisrnpoor little mite," said Mrs. Coomber, in perplexity as to the best thingrnto do.rnrn"I'll go, mother, if you can find any fish worth taking," at last saidrnDick.rnrnMrs. Coomber went and turned over what the boys had brought. The bestrnhad been picked out and sent to Fellness, and what was left was not morernthan sufficient for themselves; but she carefully looked out the largestrnshe could find and washed it. While she was doing this her husband camernin.rnrn"It's a poor take to-day, mother," he said.rnrn"Yes, and I wanted a bit extra, to get some milk for the child," saidrnMrs. Coomber; "but I think I can manage with this," she said, stillrnbusying herself with the fish, and not turning to look at her husband.rnrn"What are yer goin' to do wi' it?" he inquired.rnrn"I want to send Dick up to the farm; Mrs. Hayes will give me some milkrnfor it, I know," replied his wife, trying to speak in a matter-of-factrntone.rnrn[Illustration: "'ME LIKES 'OU,' SHE SAID." (_See page 40._)]rnrn"And you'd send Dick to that place when I said they shouldn't go nearrnthe house," said her husband, angrily. "Take the fish and cook it forrnsupper. Not a bit o' my fish shall they have."rnrn"But the milk. What am I to do for the milk for the child now she'srnill?"rnrn"What have yer done afore?" demanded her husband; and the poor woman wasrnobliged to confess that she had taken milk from the man as he went pastrnin his cart to the village each day since the child had been there. "Sherncouldn't do wi'out milk," protested Mrs. Coomber.rnrn"How do you know she couldn't?" said her husband. "What business havernyou to spend money for milk--what business have you wi' money at all?"rnhe inquired, suspiciously; for he saw in this wastefulness a cause forrnthe recent strange scarcity of whisky; and he felt he had been deeplyrnwronged. His quarrel with Hayes had also been disregarded, and this madernhim further angry with his wife, and he strictly charged her never tornhave any more dealings with any of the farm people.rnrn"We can live very well without milk," he said. "I will feed the littlern'un, and you'll see she can eat fish and bread as well as the rest ofrnus."rnrnIt was useless for Mrs. Coomber to protest against this; she knew if herrnhusband made up his mind to do anything he would do it; but she almostrndreaded supper-time coming, for she could not tell how Tiny would likernthe proposed change in her nurse and diet.rnrnBut as it happened the little girl was very pleased to be lifted out ofrnbed and seated on Coomber's knee at the table.rnrn"Me likes 'ou," she said, patting his cheek with her little white hand;rnand she ate the fish and bread as though she was quite used to suchrnfood.