"He swallowed all the air there was at hand," admitted Brown, "and
precious little milk. But he seemed hungry, and I thought he was too
little to go all night without being fed."

"Right ye were, an' 'tis feedin' he nades agin--only not with a shpoon.
I'll take him home an' fix up a bit of a bottle for him, the poor thing.
An' I'll take him at wanst, an' let ye get to bed, where ye belong, by
the looks of ye."

"You're an angel, Mrs. Kelcey. I hate to let you take him, with all you
have on your hands--"

"Shure, 'tis the hands that's full that can always hold a bit more. An' a
single man can't be bothered with cast-off childher, no matter how big
his heart is, as we well know."

And Mrs. Kelcey departed, with the baby under her shawl and a motherly
look for the man who opened the door for her and stood smiling at her in
the lamplight as she went away.

But when he had thrown himself, at last, on his bed, wearily longing for
rest, he found he had still to wrestle a while with the persistent image
of the face which was "wonderful to look at," before kindly slumber
would efface it with the gray mists of oblivion.




VII