“It may be,” said Mary Margaret, determined not to give up while a hope was left. “It may be yer honor thinks it’s the dollar a week I want; and it’s bad enough me and the childer need it, anyhow; but if ye’d but consint, I’d take Eddy, the crathur, for half price, an’ ’d think it a bargain, yer honor. If the old man had a word agin it, d’ ye see, I’d sit up anights, and do another ’xtra gentleman’s washing; it’d be no throuble in life, while I saw his beautiful, curly head peeping up from under the blankets, wid my own two spalpeens on each side, to keep the darlint from falling out of bed, ye know. I’d always manage to get him a sup of new milk, yer honor, and ’d never put in a taste of water, as I do—an’ little blame to me—wid the others.” Again Mary Margaret paused; she had no other arguments to offer, and her poor, kind heart swelled painfully, when she saw no symptom of yielding in the face of the official. “I cannot, indeed, Mrs. Dillon. It is out of my power; the child must not remain entirely with you; with so many children of your own, it would be impossible for you to bring him up as he should be; your husband ought not to permit this injudicious kindness.” Poor Mary Margaret had nothing to answer. She knew well enough her husband, a hard-working man, had trouble enough to supply the clamorous wants of his own children, and that little Eddie, with his beauty and his sweet ways, had never been taught to rough it at home with the rest. Besides, there was a more powerful argument still,—that inexorable officer. Mary Margaret looked down at the boy, and tears stole into her eyes, slowly blinding her to his wistful little face. She looked at the officer, clasping her hands and bending forward as if he had been the picture of a saint. “Would ye do it, if I’d just go down on me two bended knees to yer honor—would ye now?” “I have no power,” answered the man abruptly, bending over the book of records that lay open before him, that the woman might not observe the moisture that crept into his eyes. “I have no power,” he repeated again, abruptly, nay, almost with harshness, for he was afraid to trust himself longer with those two faces turned so imploringly upon him, compelled as he was to act by a rigid law. Mary Margaret stooped down, and lifting the child in her arms, drew a corner of her shawl over him. “Would yer honor let me keep him wid meself and the childer one more night then? It mayn’t come so hard to give him up, after we’ve had time to consider on it, and raisen it over wid de poor motherless orphan. If it was to go to heaven itself, we couldn’t give the crathur up the night. Will ye let him go home wid me just lying agin on me own motherly breast, as ye see him now? It’ll never be again, an’ I’ve nursed him like me own.”