“I will bring his father,” said she, “for if he will know or spake to any one, he will, spake to him.”
She found Art walking about, as he had done almost ever since the unhappy accident, and running to him with a gush of joyful tears, she threw her arms about his neck, and kissing him, said—
“Blessed be the Almighty, Art—” but she paused, “oh, great God, Art, what is this! merciful heaven, do I smell whiskey on you?”
“You do,” he replied, “it's in vain, I can't live—I'd die widout it; it's in vain, Margaret, to spake—if I don't get it to deaden my grief I'll die: but, what wor you goin' to tell me?” he added eagerly.
She burst into tears.
“Oh, Art,” said she, “how my heart has sunk in spite of the good news I have for you.”
“In God's name,” he asked, “what is it? is our darlin' betther?”
“He is,” she replied, “he has opened his eyes this minute, and I want you to spake to him.”
They both entered stealthily, and to their inexpressible delight heard the child's voice; they paused,—breathlessly paused,—and heard him utter, in a low sweet voice, the following words—
“Daddy, won't you come to bed wid me, wid your own Atty?”