"Thank you very much for your kind interest, Mrs. Smith; but really,

you must let me judge of my own affairs." There was a dignity about

the girl that brooked no further interference.

"That's right, my dear, and I wouldn't have thought of suggesting it,

but you do seem that young--well, I must be going down to put the

potatoes on for dinner. If you want anything, just ring your bell."

There was not the least resentment cherished by the corpulent Mrs.

Smith. The girl's answer confirmed her opinion from the first. "She

would not send for her husband, because there wasn't no husband to send

for." She mentioned her convictions to her husband and added she meant

to write to sister Eliza that very night.

"Sister Eliza has an uncommon light hand with babies and that pore

young thing'll be hard pushed to pay the doctor, let alone a nurse."

These essentially feminine details regarding the talents of Sister

Eliza, did not especially interest Smith, who continued his favorite

occupation--or rather, joint occupations, of whittling and

expectorating. Nevertheless, the letter to Sister Eliza was written,

and not a minute sooner than was necessary; for, the little soul that

was to bring with it forgetfulness for all the agony through which its

mother had lived during that awful year, came very soon after the

arrival of Sister Eliza.

Anna had felt in those days of waiting that she could never again be

happy; that for her "finis" had been written by the fates. But, as she

lay with the dark-haired baby on her breast, she found herself planning

for the little girl's future; even happy in the building of those

heavenly air-castles that young mothers never weary of building. She

felt the necessity of growing strong so that she could work early and

late, for baby must have everything, even if mother went without.

Sometimes a fleeting likeness to Sanderson would flit across the

child's face, and a spasm of pain would clutch at Anna's heart, but she

would forget it next moment in one of baby's most heavenly smiles.

She could think of him now without a shudder; even a lingering remnant

of tenderness would flare up in her heart when she remembered he was

the baby's father. Perhaps he would see the child sometime, and her

sweet baby ways would plead to him more eloquently than could all her

words to right the wrong he had done, and so the days slipped by and

the little mother was happy, after the long drawn out days of waiting

and misery. She would sing the baby to sleep in her low contralto

voice, and feel that it mattered not whether the world smiled or

frowned on her, so long as baby approved.




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