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260 260 AN ODD LIFE.

eighty. " Poor Willy Streetside ! " I murmured, for his curious name clung to my memory.

Suddenly the baby turned his blue eyes full on me, and said :

" I suppose it's all up, doctor? "

I started violently, and let go his hand. The words were perhaps not altogether beyond the capacity of an infant ; but the air of manly resignation with which they were uttered was astonishing. For more reasons than one, I hesitated.

"You need not be afraid to tell me the truth," said the baby, with a wistful smile ; " I'm not afraid to hear it."

" Well — well, you're pretty bad," I stammered.

" Ah ! thank you," the child replied gratefully. " How many hours do you give me? "

The baby's gravity took my breath away. He spoke with an old-world courtesy and the ingenuous stateliness of an infant prince.

" It may not be quite hopeless," I murmured.

Willy shook his head, the pretty, wan features distorted by a quaint grimace.

" I suppose I'm too young to rally," he said quietly, and closed his eyes.

Presently he re-opened them, and added :

" But I should have liked to live to see the Irish question settled."

"You would? " I ejaculated, overwhelmed.

" Yes," he said, adding with a whimsical expression in the wee blue eyes : " You mustn't think I crave for earthly im- mortality. I use ' settled ' in a merely rough sense. My mother was an Irish poetess, over whose songs impetuous Celts still break their hearts and their heads."

I gazed speechless at this wonder-child, pushing the