“Your—baby!” said Euphemia. “Where did you get it? what are you going to do with it?”
“I got it in New Dublin,” I replied, “and I want it to amuse and occupy me while I am at home. I haven't anything else to do, except things that take me away from you.”
“Oh!” said Euphemia.
At this moment, little Pat gave his first whimper. Perhaps he felt the searching glance that fell upon him from the lady in the middle of the room.
I immediately began to walk up and down the floor with him, and to sing to him. I did not know any infant music, but I felt sure that a soothing tune was the great requisite, and that the words were of small importance. So I started on an old Methodist tune, which I remembered very well, and which was used with the hymn containing the lines:
“Weak and wounded, sick and sore,”
and I sang, as soothingly as I could:
“Lit-tle Pat-sy, Wat-sy, Sat-sy,
Does he feel a lit-ty bad?
Me will send and get his bot-tle
He sha'n't have to cry-wy-wy.”
“What an idiot!” said Euphemia, laughing in spite of her vexation.
“No, we aint no id-i-otses
What we want's a bot-ty mik.”