"I don't know what he means, mum," nurse exclaimed distractedly. "Is it a hymn, do you think?"
"No," bawled Punch indignantly; "t'int a hymn. Oh, do sing Kevin," he wailed, standing up in his cot with his arms round his mother's neck and his hot, tear-stained little face pressed against hers.
"But, Punch, dear, what is Kevin? Of course I'll sing it if you'll only explain."
"But you can't," lamented Punch; and inconsequent as inconsolable he reiterated, "Oh, do sing Kevin."
"But who can sing this song?" Mrs. Wentworth asked. "Where have you heard it?"
"Lallie singed it. Oh, do get Lallie. Lallie knows Kevin."
"I can't get Lallie to come and sing for you in the middle of the night. You mustn't be unreasonable. You must wait until next time you see her--perhaps to-morrow--then you can ask her to sing for you."
"T'int the miggle of the night," Punch retorted scornfully, "or you'd be wearing a nighty gown. Please, dear mudger, get Lallie, ven she'll sing Kevin and I'll go to sleep."
Mrs. Wentworth and the nurse exchanged glances across the cot.
"'Tis but a step across the playground to B. House," the nurse said in a low voice. "I know the young lady would pop over. He's been goin' on like this for over an hour."