"Divil a bit will I hush, sure; an' haven't I as good a right to have me say as that singin' parson!"
"You are an Irishman, are you not?" said Dennis, now venturing out of the water.
"Yis! what have ye got to say agin it?" asked the man, belligerent at once.
"Did you ever know an Irishman refuse to do what a lady asked of him?"
"Faith no, and I niver will."
"Then this lady, who is sick and suffering, asks you to please keep still, and I will be still also; so that's fair."
The Irishman scratched his head a moment, and said in a quieter tone, "Since ye spake so civil and dacent, I'll do as ye sez; and here's to the leddy's health;" and he finished a bottle of whiskey, which he soon laid him out on the beach.
"Thank you! Thank you!" said grateful voices on every side.
Dennis found the mother of the child and gave it to her; and then causing Christine to sit down near the water, where he could easily throw it on her, he stood at her side, vigilant and almost tender in his solicitude. Her tears were falling very fast, and he presently stooped down and said, gently, "Miss Ludolph, I think the worst of the danger is over."
"Oh, Mr. Fleet!" she whispered, "dreadful as it may seem to you, the words of that drunken brute there are nearer the language of my heart than those of your sweet hymn. How can a good God permit such creatures and evils to exist?"