Simon Shirley arrived from Massachusetts with his wife and baby daughter on Christmas Day. Prematurely bald and wearing thick pincenez that made his eyes look enormous above the fluffy fur collar of his overcoat, he looked very much like an owl to Little Bart who rushed to the door at the clap of the knocker.
"And who, may I ask, who are you?" queried Simon of the tiny fellow in the Burnside hat.
Little Bart could not suppress his giggles. "Hoo," he imitated owlishly in reply, "hoo are you-hoo?"
Confronted with Little Bart's charm, the stern Bostonian wrinkled his thin lips in a smile. "I am Simple Simon who met a pie man going to the fair," he paraphrased the old nursery rhyme.
It was Little Bart's turn for owlish eyes. "You are?" he asked, overwhelmed. "I never met anybody like that before!"
Philo appeared in the hall behind the boy.
"Simon!" he greeted. "You're right on time! I have to leave tomorrow."
The men shook hands and then pulled one another into an embrace.
"Thank the Lord you're safe, my friend," Simon declared. "Jane is with me, out in the hack. We have a daughter now, Philo! Her name is Irene."
Philo looked out the door to a carriage at the curb. "We must bring them in from the cold."
Rushing together to the hack, Simon reached inside, proudly lifting up his baby for Philo to see.
"This is Irene," he said. "Isn't she a precious little thing?"
"Indeed she is!" Philo agreed, handing down an anemic-looking, dark-haired woman massively bundled in fur. "Jane, you've done yourself proud. You've given Simon a lovely child."
"She'll be the last, I can tell you!" snapped Jane in a voice as sharp as her features.
The men were too busy cooing at the infant to pay attention to her words or the sour expression on her face.
In the house, a great fuss was made over Irene. Only the newborn's mother remained dispassionate, standing off to the side.
"I think that's quite enough," she remarked testily after a quarter of an hour.
"Oh, my dear," apologized Nelle, the babe chortling in her arms, "how inconsiderate of me not to think of you first! Why, you gave birth only a month ago, and now, after a long and tiring journey, I neglect you! Here, Simon, take your daughter, then I'll show y'all to your room!"
Flitting ahead of them, Nelle disappeared upstairs with the Shirleys.
Later that night in their own bedroom, Nelle sat at the dressing table brushing her long tresses. "Philo, dearest, did you notice the change in Jane?"
He nestled comfortably in a commodious armchair, ready for bed. Slipper-clad feet propped up by a Turkish stool, Philo was staring thoughtfully into a warming fire. "No, sweetheart, I can't say that I did," he replied absently and fell silent again.
Unheeding, Nelle went on. "Of course, anyone could see the change. Simon told us the birth was difficult for her...as Ardie's was for me."
She caught her breath sharply, thinking suddenly of the cost - no more babies of her own ever again. She looked away from the anguished expression reflected in the mirror.
"It makes a difference in a woman," she continued, "going through such pain to have a child. I love Ardie even more, perhaps, for the trouble he gave me. Some women, though..." Her voice trailed off, then skittered back.
"Oh, Philo, it's not just Jane's behavior! She was never rude before. It's her eyes! Those lovely dark orbs used to be soft like a doe's, but now they're...today, I thought them...oh, dear...they are hard!"
Recapturing her good humor, Nelle stood up from the dressing table. "You'll notice I'm not so plump anymore," she suggested, shrugging off her peignoir.
The generous curves of her body were tantalizingly revealed by the peach satin of a clinging nightgown. Smoothing shapely hips with elegant, slender hands, she looked to her husband for admiration, but found him deeply reflective instead.
"I declare, Cap'n Duncan, you're not listenin' to me! I reckon I'll have to come and get you for that!" The words flowed out in exaggerated coastal-Georgia drawl, like the languid stretching of a cat.
She pounced demurely on Philo's lap, startling him from his reverie.
"I want to know what you were thinking about," she sighed. "I can't help but suppose it wasn't about me."
His arms enfolding her, Philo smiled. "You suppose wrong, sweetheart," he whispered, his eyes filled with adoration. "I was thinking how good you are, how unworthy I am of you. You've taken in Annie and Little Bart just because God gave them to me. You are truly a saint, my love."
 She ran her fingers through his wavy locks. "When God gave them to you, He also gave them to me," she breathed. "I love you, Master Angel Hair."
He pressed her tightly against his heart, two last, wistful thoughts yet lingering in his mind: Tomorrow I must leave her. When will I see her again?
He brushed her lips tenderly with his. She returned the kiss with passion.
His thoughts of parting dissolved in a floodtide of love.
The following morning, he called Simon to his study early and turned over Duncan Cargo to his care, telling him only as much as President Lincoln would allow.
Satisfied that all was in order, Simon offered Philo his hand. "Good friend, take care of yourself. I'll see that no harm comes to your loved ones."
"Thank you, Simon," Philo acknowledged. "I'm going to hold you to that."
Everyone gathered in the hallway to witness his departure. Only Jane stayed in her room, claiming she was still too weak from the baby's birth.
Nelle and Ardie clung to him tearfully.
Annie stood behind Bart, clutching his shoulders supportively with her chubby hands. She had, in her usual way, seen his need and responded as she should. As hard as Philo's going was for his wife and natural son, it was harder still for Little Bart.
In stoic silence, arms at his sides with tiny fists tightly clenched, the five-year-old was suffering a monumental sense of devastation. Only two weeks before, the child had seen his real father die, the death rattle breathed in Little Bart's very ear.
Then Philo had come in a shower of northern lights, and then had come again on Christmas Eve, and now he was going away. It was another death to Little Bart.
Philo looked at Annie whose eyes spoke all she felt. He looked down at Little Bart. The expression of steely courage on the child's face nearly broke the captain's heart. In a rush the tall man gathered him up and kissed him with a compassion only the kindest hearts can know.
The boy's tight fists relaxed. He gave back to Philo a ferocious hug, leaned back in his arms and gazed earnestly into his face.
"I don't know what to call you, sir," Little Bart said. "We better get that straightened out so when you come back...you are comin' back, ain't you?" His pale green eyes were untroubled now, showing his comfort in Philo's arms.
"Certainly I'm coming back," the captain replied, casting a reassuring smile at Nelle. "What do you think you ought to call me, son?"
The lad mulled it over seriously, his brow creased in a frown. "Well," he ventured, "I called my pa ‘Pa,' but Ardie calls you that. I reckon it's fittin' for you to be Cap'n to me. Yessir, I reckon that'll do."
Wordlessly indicating her gratitude to the captain, Annie lifted Little Bart away from Philo with a motherly embrace.
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