"A boy—eh, doctor?" faltered the knight. "But of course it isn't—I mean—it can't be—a—a—full grown child?"

"Well, my dear Sir Christopher," responded Dr. Wagtail, who perfectly understood where the shoe pinched, "from what Mr. Snipekin, the talented and much-sought-after accoucheur whom I deemed it prudent to call in just now,—from what Mr. Snipekin says, Sir Christopher, I do believe that the dear little creature has come a leetle before his time. But pray don't make yourself uneasy on that account, my dear Sir Christopher; for the sweet babe is in no danger, and is an uncommonly fine child, to be sure!"

"Then it is a little before its time, doctor—eh!" said Sir Christopher. "But—doctor—you and me are old friends, and you can speak candidly, you know——and—the truth is——you must remember that—that—our marriage only took place—three months ago—and it seems to me rather unusual—not that I suspect dear Lady Blunt's virtue for a moment—on the contrary—I know her to be a perfect paragon of morality: at the same time—three months, doctor—and a fine boy——"

"My dear Sir Christopher," responded Dr. Wagtail, foreseeing that the amount of his fee would depend vastly upon the state of mind in which the Knight might be when he should give it, and acting moreover upon his favourite principle of humouring the whims and wishes of all persons with whom he had any professional connexion,—"my dear Sir Christopher," he said, looking very solemn indeed, "your avocations in the world have not allowed you time to dive into the mysteries of science and investigate the arcana of learning—much less to pursue with sesquipedalian regularity the routine of that course of study which, in the abstract, and also considered in a purely professional point of view—and having due regard to the wonders of physiological science,—in fact—ahem!—you understand me, Sir Christopher?"

"Ye-e-s, doctor," drawled forth the bewildered knight. "But I think you were going to satisfy me—you know—about the three months—and a fine boy—doctor——"

"I was coming to that point, my dear Sir Christopher," said Dr. Wagtail. "In fact, I was about to observe that physiology, properly considered in its etymological signification, comprehends the entire science of Nature; but I must impress upon your mind, Sir Christopher, that the ratiocinative propensities of modern physicians have induced them, doubtless after much profound cogitation, to restrict the term to that department of physical knowledge relating, referring, and belonging exclusively to organic existence. And thus, Sir Christopher——ahem!—you follow me?"

"Oh! quite easy—indeed!" returned the knight, wondering in his own mind whether it were dog Latin that stunned his ears, and also how any one individual could possibly pick up and retain such an immense amount of knowledge. "But—the point was, doctor——"

"Precisely, my dear Sir Christopher!" exclaimed the physician, looking as wise as all the seven sages of Greece put together: "it was to that very point which I was coming;—but I thought that a detailed and full explanation would prove most satisfactory to you."

"Oh! decidedly, doctor:—and I am sure I am very much obliged to you for taking the trouble to—to——"

"Well, then, my dear Sir Christopher," interrupted the fashionable physician; "all my premises being granted, and the arguments which I have adduced being fully admitted, I think that the demonstration is easy enough. Consequently, Sir Christopher, it is quite apparent that a child may be born three months after marriage; at the same time, I think I can assure you, that in future your excellent and amiable lady will not be quite so premature in her accouchements."

"It is not unusual, then, doctor, amongst your female patients?" said Sir Christopher, who was not entirely satisfied yet.

"It is by no means unusual that a first child should be born a few months after marriage, my dear Sir Christopher," answered the physician.

"And perhaps—perhaps, it's rather fashionable than otherwise?" asked the knight, in a hesitating manner.

"Well—I don't know but what it is, Sir Christopher," replied Dr. Wagtail, taking a pinch of snuff. "And now that your mind is completely set at rest on this point—as indeed it must and ought to be, after the full and professional explanation which I have given you,—I will return to the chamber of your amiable and excellent lady, and see whether you can be permitted to visit her for a few moments."

"Do, my dear doctor. And, doctor," cried the Knight, as a sudden idea struck him; "pray don't—I mean, it is not necessary to let Lady Blunt know that—that—in a word—that I asked you any questions——"

"Oh! certainly not, my dear Sir Christopher," exclaimed the physician; and he then quitted the room.

"Well," thought the knight to himself, as soon as he was again alone; "and so I am the father—the happy father,"—and he made a slight grimace,—"of a fine boy. A fine boy—eh! 'Pon my honour, I'm very glad—very glad, indeed! A son and heir—a little Christopher! How very kind of my dear wife: it is a tie which will bind us together—perhaps soften her temper a leetle—and make her more sparing in the use of her finger nails. Well—if it's only for that, the coming of this child will be a great blessing—a very great blessing. But I really do wish the dear babe had made its appearance about six months later. Not that it matters much—seeing that I must be its father, and that the thing is rather fashionable than otherwise. Besides—Doctor Wagtail is such a clever man—such a very clever man—and his explanation was so completely satisfactory—so very lucid and clear—a fool might understand it. Well, I really ought to be a very happy fellow!"

But all the knight's attempts at self-persuasion and self-consolation were futile: there was a weight upon his spirits that he could not throw off—and in the depths of his secret soul there was an awful misgiving, to the existence of which he vainly endeavoured to blind his mental vision. He strove to be gay—he tried to establish the conviction that he was perfectly happy and contented—he did all he could to make himself admit to himself that the doctor's reasoning was conclusive:—still he could not shut out from his heart the ever recurring thought that the physician's argument might be very conclusive indeed, but that he was totally unable to understand a word of it.

Then came the fear of ridicule;—and this was the most galling sentiment of all. But, on the other hand, there was an apprehension which was not without its weight: namely, the anger of his wife, in case she should discover that he had dared to doubt her virtue.

Thus, by the time the doctor came back, the silly old gentleman had determined to take matters just as he found them: and, though half suspecting that there was something wrong in the business, he resolved to maintain as contented an air as possible, as the only means of combatting ridicule should he experience it, or of quieting his wife should she hear of any thing to excite her irritability.

"We are getting on so well, my dear Sir Christopher," said the physician, "that we can see you for a few minutes; but we cannot bear any loud speaking as yet, and we establish it as a condition that you do not attempt to kiss our child more than once, for fear you should set it crying and make our head ache."

Sir Christopher attempted a pleasant smile, and followed Dr. Wagtail to the chamber of the indisposed lady.

The moment the door was opened, the shrill but nevertheless apparently half-stifled cry of a newborn child saluted the knight's ears; and, hastening up to the bed, he bent over and kissed his wife.

"See what heaven has sent us, Sir Christopher!" said the lady, in a low and weak voice, well suited to the solemnity of her observation; and, slightly uncovering the bed-clothes, she exhibited a tiny object, looking amazingly red, but which she assured him was "the sweetest little face in the world."

"That it is—the pretty creatur!" observed a hoarse voice, which appeared to emanate from the chimney, but which in reality came from no further off than the fire-place, and belonged to an elderly woman of tremendous corpulency, who was arranging some baby-linen on a clothes-horse. "I've nussed a many ladies," continued the stout proprietress of the hoarse voice, "but never such a patient dear as your'n, Sir Christopher: and I never see such a angel at its birth as that babby. Why," continued the woman, advancing towards the knight and giving him a good long stare, while, potent odours of gin assailed his nostrils all the while, "I do declare that the babby is as like his father as he can be."

Sir Christopher "grinned horribly a ghastly smile," and slipped half-a-guinea into the nurse's hand, at which proof of his generosity she dropped him a curtsey that shook the house so profoundly as nearly to drop her through the floor.

"Yes—the babby's as like you, Sir, as two peas is like each other," continued the nurse, while Dr. Wagtail and the accoucheur exchanged rapid but intelligent glances at the excellence of the idea, and Sir Christopher grunted like a learned pig which has just put its snout upon the right card in a show. "I'm sure, Sir, you ought to be wery much obleeged to missus for presenting you with such a cherub. Poor dear! she had a sad time of it—but she bore it like a saint, as she is. Won't you let master have just one kiss at the little dear, my lady?"

The saint was just at that moment wondering whether the child, as it grew up, would bear any resemblance to a certain tall footman in a certain family at the West End: but why such an idea should enter her head, we must leave to the readers to divine.

The nurse repeated her question, adding, "Do let the little dear's pa just kiss it once; and then we must turn him out, you know, ma'am, for the present."

"Yes, Sir Christopher—you may kiss the little cherub, if you like," said Lady Blunt, in a tone which was meant to impress on her husband's mind a full sense of the favour conferred upon him: "but pray don't make the sweet child squeal out—for you're so rough."

The knight accordingly touched the babe with his lips, which he smacked to make believe that the kiss was a hearty one in spite of his wife's injunction; and, this ceremony being completed, he was turned out of the room by the nurse, whose power on such occasions amounts, as all fathers know, to an absolute despotism.

"The nurse" is a species exhibiting but little variety. Stout and in good spirits she must always be; and bottled stout and ardent spirits she highly esteems. She moreover has an excellent appetite, and is fond of many meals in the course of the day. She awakes at five or six in the morning, and makes herself strong hot coffee and a couple of rounds of toast, putting a great deal of sugar to the former, and a vast quantity of butter to the latter. At nine she is ready for her breakfast—the first meal not being so denominated and in fact considered as nothing at all. If her mistress be awake, the nurse will amuse her with innumerable stories relative to her former places; and she will not fail to make herself out the very best nurse in the world. She will describe how one lady was inconsolable because she could not have her at the desired time; how another lady would eat nothing unless prepared by the said nurse's own hands; how a third would have died if it had not been for her care and attention; and how she never slept a wink nor put her clothes off once for a whole month while in attendance upon another lady. Then she is sure to be well connected and to have seen better days: and if asked for her address, she is certain to reply, "Lord bless you, my dear: all you have to do is to send and inquire for me in such-and-such a street, and any body will tell you where I live." In fact she is as well known in her quarter of the town as the Queen is at Pimlico. But—to continue the category of meals—at eleven o'clock she is quite prepared for a mutton-chop and half a pint of stout; and she forces a basin of gruel down her mistress's throat, accompanied with many a "Poor dear, I'm sure you must want it!" At two o'clock she has a good appetite for her dinner; and then she manages to get on pretty comfortably till tea-time. The nurse is very fond of her tea, and likes it strong. After tea, as her mistress most likely sleeps, she gets hold of an odd volume of a romance, or a newspaper not more than a week old; and it is ten to one that she believes every word she reads in both. If her mistress happen to be awake, the nurse will comment upon what she reads. The newspaper, especially, is sure to set her talking on the "hardness of the times," and arouse all her reminiscences of "when she was a gal." She will often express her mysterious wonder at "what the world is coming to," and invariably speaks as if every thing had undergone a great change for the worst. She is sure to know a poor family whom she is mainly instrumental in saving from starvation; and she is equally certain to descant upon the necessity of sobriety and frugality amongst the working classes. Then she remembers that it is time "for missus to take her medicine;" but when she goes to the shelf or the cupboard, she stays a little longer there than is quite necessary to pour out the medicine aforesaid; and, as she approaches the bed to administer the same, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and her eyes are observed to water. The invalid lady may now thank her stars if she be not assailed with an odour of ardent spirit while she receives her medicine from the hand of the nurse. Well, the time passes away somehow or another until the supper hour; and it is a remarkable fact, that the nurse never seems wearied of the monotony of her avocation. But, then, in the evening she manages to get half-an-hour's chat with the servants down stairs; and the chat is rendered the more pleasant by a little drop of something short out of a black bottle which the cook mysteriously produces from the cupboard. On these occasions the nurse exhibits all her importance. She assures the listening domestics that it was very fortunate she happened to be sent for to attend upon "missus," as if any other nurse had been called in the results would have been most unpleasantly different. She then expresses her opinion of the medical attendant; and her estimation of this gentleman is invariably regulated by the amount of his liberality towards her. If he gave her the odd shillings which accompanied the sovereigns in the little piece of paper containing the fee, then he is sure to be a very clever man indeed; but if he forgot this important duty, then in the nurse's estimation he is certain to be a most unfit doctor to call in; and "it was quite a wonder that he didn't kill poor dear missus." Having thus delivered her opinion, which is received as gospel by the servants, she hastens up stairs again, and relates to her mistress her own version of the conversation which has taken place down below. After supper she no longer partakes of ardent spirit on the sly, and unblushingly brews herself a potent glass. But then she is sure to have an excuse—such a dreadful pain in the stomach, or a bad cold; and her mistress, whose peace of mind depends on keeping her attendant in a good humour, says in a mild, languid voice, "Do make yourself comfortable, nurse!" And the nurse obeys the hint to the very letter. The liquor induces her to descant upon spirits in general; and she is sure to inform her mistress that the Duke of Wellington doesn't sell near such good things as the Duck and Drake; but that "the beautifullest gin is at the public round the corner." Sometimes—and this is one of the worst features in her character—the nurse will take it into her head to relate gloomy stories to her mistress; and when once she gets on this subject, the devil himself could not stop her. She tells how she knew a lady who went on very well for ten days, and then popped off all on a sudden; or else she was once in a house which caught on fire in the middle of the night, and the poor lady and child were burnt to death. If the husband should happen to be out late, the nurse, when she is in this gloomy vein, talks mysteriously of the danger of the streets; and says how she knew a gentleman who was run over by an omnibus during the fog. But, in justice to the nurse, we must observe, that these horrible subjects are not very frequently touched on by her—and only when she gets somewhat maudlin with too much ardent spirit or bottled stout. For the first week she is in her place, no one comes to see her; but in the course of the second, she is visited by her married daughter and her married daughter's eldest girl. During the third week, the nurse is constantly wanted by people who come to see her, or inquire for her; and at the beginning of the fourth the front door bell is rung frantically, and the nurse hears, with a countenance so innocent that it is almost impossible to think she has pre-arranged the whole matter, that Mrs. So-and-so, whom she has pledged herself to attend upon, is just taken in labour, and she (the nurse) must go to her directly. Her mistress is by this time well enough to do without her; and the nurse receives her full month's wages for three week's attendance.

But let us return to Sir Christopher Blunt, whom we left at that pleasant point when, having undergone the ceremony of embracing the babe which, according to his lady's account, heaven had sent him, he wended his way back to the drawing-room.

At that precise moment Sir Christopher would have given just one half of his fortune to be enabled to undo all he had done three months previously. He had married in haste, and he now repented at leisure. But it was too late to retract; and he found, to his infinite mortification, that he must "grin and bear it."

The accoucheur shortly entered the room to report that "all was going on as well as could be expected;" and, having received his fee, he took his departure.

Soon afterwards the pompous and self-sufficient Dr. Wagtail made his appearance, and received his fee, which, out of sheer ostentation, the knight rendered as liberal as the physician had anticipated.

These little matters being disposed of, Sir Christopher rang the bell, ordered up a bottle of claret and was about to console himself with the solitary enjoyment of the same, when an astounding double knock and tremendous ring at the front-door startled him so fearfully that he spilt the wine over his red trousers and nearly upset the table on which his elbow was leaning.

"Who can this be?" he exclaimed aloud.

"Captain O'Blunderbuss!" cried the footman, throwing open the door as wide as possible to afford ingress to the swaggering officer.