“Yes!” said the officer, kindly, glad to have a petition he could grant, “yes, yes; take him along, and if you wish it, go with him yourself up to the Island. Then you can be satisfied how well he will be cared for in his new home.” “Thank yer honor kindly. I’ll do me best to be content,” said the poor woman, wiping her eyes with a corner of her shawl, and folding it over the boy again. “Do ye think they’ll bind him out, and put him to strangers entirely, yer honor?” “No, no! he is quite too young for that. It is more likely that some person may adopt him and make a gentleman of him.” “He is a gintleman, every inch of him,” answered Margaret, giving the child an enthusiastic hug, while her ardent temperament caught fire at this prophecy of a grand fortune. “It’s meself that has been particular regarding his manners, never letting him run out in the sun or make dirt-pies, or pick up oyster-shells from the gutter, wid the common. See if he isn’t white an’ clane as a dove—the crathur—neck an’ all, wid reverence to ye.” Here Mary Margaret jerked down the little fellow’s calico frock in front, exhibiting a plump, snowy neck, softly flushed like a shell that has just left the water, and a pair of dimpled shoulders, from which the short sleeves were gathered up by bows of faded pink ribbon. “Wouldn’t any gintleman be proud of the like of that for a child of his own, now?” she continued, uttering her words between the kisses that she lavished on the white neck and shoulders, leaving a flush with every touch. “Thank ye, kindly, for giving him to me and the childer for one night more; it’s like sending a lost bird to its nest agin. God’s blessings on ye!” Thus, half in tears, and half grateful, Mrs. Dillon made her way through the hungry crowd, that even in its misery cast admiring glances after the child, and walked homeward. Striving to reconcile herself to the inevitable with resolute philosophy, but with a swell of grief at heart, which threatened every moment to break into a deluge of tears, she presented little Edward to his foster-brothers and playfellows once more. She informed them, a little crossly, for her true sorrow would break forth in some shape, that it was only for a night, and after that Eddie would be made a gintleman of entirely, and that “if he was going up among the common childer, it was only for convanience like, and after a while would be traiting ’em all with great civility, and bowing to ’em from his carriage-windy.” Her young brood took this information rather shyly, and Terry, who had been like a twin-brother to the little orphan, rebelled at once, vociferously protesting that he would go with Eddie and be a gintleman, too. But at length young Ireland was consoled with a promise, that perhaps he might yet ride behind the carriage which Eddie was undoubtedly to occupy, while the dear little fellow himself underwent a world of caresses, and was hushed to sleep with many a smothered sob.