“Honor bright.” “Wal, what _kin_ I dew?” cried Captain Corbet. “I can’t leave the infant’s bedside. I couldn’t take ten steps away, and leave him here. What _kin_ I do?” “I’ll tell you,” cried Pat, at last, after some silence, and with an air of desperate determination. “I’ll stay wid him, and you go down.” “_You_ stay?” “Yis, mesilf. He’s asleep. He won’t wake. I’ll rock him. It’ll be all right. And you hurry down, an hurry back.” Captain Corbet looked a long time in doubt at Pat, meditating over this singular proposal. “Wal,” said he, at last, “railly--it’s desput kind in you--but--a feyther’s feelins--air desput delicate things--but as you say--he’s asleep--bress his pooty face!--an he’ll stay asleep--and you’ll rock him--an watch over his infant slumbers. And I’m desput cur’ous--and so--why, railly, I declar’ ef I hain’t got half a mind to go--jest to please the boys.” “Do,” said Pat, earnestly; “an make haste about it, too, for they’re dyin wid impatience, so they are.” Captain Corbet gave an uneasy glance all around. “Ah, come now, hurry up,” urged Pat, “an don’t be all night about it.” “I feel dreadful oneasy,” said Captain Corbet, “about’ what I’m agoin for to do.” “Onaisy, is it? Nonsense! Won’t I be here? Am I a Injin?” “You’ll be kerful then--will ye?” said Captain Corbet, anxiously. “Sure an I will.” “An watch him?” “Av coorse. But sure an he’s sleepin like a lamb; he’ll need no care or watchin.” “An you think I railly may ventoor, jest to please the boys.” “O, yis, av coorse; on’y don’t wait any longer.” Captain Corbet drew a deep breath, as though to summon up all his fortitude for the ordeal before him. “Wal,” he said, “I will. I’ll make the plunge. But be kerful; watch. An of he stirs, rock him; an ef he stirs more, rock him harder; but ef he stirs more, so as to be likely to wake, you must sing to him; an ef he actilly doos wake, then you’ll have to take him up and nuss him. Ef he still con-tennoos to wail,”--and here the captain’s voice faltered,--“you must walk up and down with him; ef he don’t stop then, sing and play with the furnitoor; and finally, ef nothin else’ll quiet him, thar’s his bowl an his bessed supper on the table, an you must feed him. But how can I bar to leave him, and trust all this to you--?” “O, nonsense!” cried Pat; “sure an he won’t wake at all, at all; an if he does, I’ll do everythin that you say, an more by the same token.” “You will?” “Av coorse.” “Then I think I may ventoor,” said Captain Corbet. “Do, an be quick. Ah, now, none of that,” cried Pat, as the fond father stooped over the cradle of his infant. “Sure ye’ll wake him, so ye will. Hurry off.” “Wal, I was just goin to kiss him--but p’aps I’d better not,--so I’ll go.” And with these words Captain Corbet tore himself away from the cradle, and left the house.