It was, however, not a great while before a safe acquaintance grew up between the new comer and Ellen. He was called Patrick, after his father, and his father’s father before him. Ellen was three years his senior. That difference in their ages would have been a wonder; only that it was explainable. Another little Patrick, his predecessor, was “called home,” as his father said, “before he had scarce a taste of the world at all.” And Ellen, from hearing so often of the other little Patrick, and from her indistinct memory of a baby that she saw one day, as if in a dream, and did not see any more, learned to think of infants as of little things that would die if they were not carefully watched. And this Patrick she was resolved should not slip away for want of attention from his sister; therefore she nursed him as carefully as if that had been her sole vocation. The wonder about babies grew less as Ellen grew older. At first, in her childish little heart, she thought every little baby must be a little Patrick, and that no new one could come while there was another about. But familiarity destroys marvels. She found there could be little Phelims and Terrences as well as Patricks, Bridgets and Kathleens as well as Ellens. Child after child lifted its clamorous voice for food and nursing in Patrick O’Brien’s cottage, until at last when he was asked respecting his children, he was fain to count them upon his fingers. And he always began with Ellen and his thumb—Paddy came next, and the formula was—“There’s Ellen, then little Paddy that was called early, then Paddy that is now—sure Ellen and Paddy are the thumb and forefinger to us. What would the mother do without them, at all?”