“Faix, but it’s goodness all over to see you lying there with the poor orphan in your arms, motherly as can be, though ye do look like a child yerself,” she said, seating herself at the foot of her young neighbor’s bed; “and it’s thriving so, wouldn’t it be a blessed sight to the mother, who is gone. Poor young mother, if she could only look upon us now and see the child cuddling down in the bed like a birdie in its nest?” The young woman smiled; she was very weak and pallid yet, but the dimples would come around her mouth whenever she looked down upon the baby. “Ye’re mighty fond of it, I can see that with half an eye,” said Margaret, tossing up her own plump boy with both hands; “but here’s a shaver that will weigh down two of him, if he isn’t so white and purty. Did ye ever see a crathur thrive like this little felly. Kiss him now, plump on the mouth, he’s nate as a pink all over; and I’m going home for good the morning.” “Going home!” exclaimed her friend, starting up and holding out her arms for the child. “Oh! what shall I do after that; it will be terrible staying here all alone!” “True, for ye; but I’ll be coming and going, never fear. The old man is lonesome like, and the childer trouble him, so he wants me to the fore.” “Oh, if I were only well enough to go out,” sighed the young creature, whose delicate arms had already drooped under the weight of Mrs. Dillon’s baby; “but where could I go—where could I go?” “Now, whist a bit,” answered Mary Margaret, in full sympathy. “When the time comes, look to the blessed Saviour; but first, ye know, find out the shanty of Margaret Dillon; it’s on the rocks above Fortieth Street. Ye’ll know it by a black goat that browses there; to say nothing of two geese and a duck that paddles in the bit of a pond close by; whenever it is, ye’ll be welcome as the spring-flowers.” By this time the young woman was crying, and Margaret felt sympathetic tears stealing into her eyes. “Ye’ll be sure to come?” “Yes; you have been so good to me, Mrs. Dillon, and I don’t know that I have another friend in the world.” “Well, now, give the boy another kiss,—for luck, you know,—and I’ll be going.” The young woman rose feebly from her pillow and kissed the child; then she held up her trembling mouth for Margaret’s hearty farewell, and turning her face to the pillow, began to cry. Margaret, who had been bundling the child away under her shawl, gave him another breath of air, and seating herself on the bed again, began to comfort that poor young creature, who was, in truth, about parting with her last friend. While she was bending over her in a fit of motherly compassion, a woman came into the ward accompanied by Jane Kelly and one of the young doctors, who had charge that day and was scarcely more than a student. “Here is the child we were speaking of,” said Jane, coming up to the bed and turning back the blankets; “all the rest have some one to take care of them.”