“Angry, love!” replied my father, reproachfully.
“You never were angry with me yet. But—but—I have done something, upon which I should have previously obtained your sanction, love.”
“What was it, Emily?”
“I promised,” said my mother, “the dying woman, that her helpless child should find in you and me protectors. Hector’s nurse has taken the orphan,—and shall he not be our own boy’s foster-brother?”
“You did, my dear, precisely what I had determined to have done myself.”
“Before the sufferer’s voice failed totally,” continued the lady, “she said that the child was still unchristened, and prayed that rite might be performed when convenient.”
“There will be no difficulty in complying with her request,” replied my father; “there are now two learned Thebans in Knockloftie. To which of the professors does the poor baby belong?”
“His parents were Roman Catholics,” said my mother.
“Then, Father Dominic, a cast of your office will be necessary. Ring for Sergeant Brady—and then parade the child.”
In a few moments the non-commissioned officer and the soldier’s orphan were introduced.