Oh, how Ruth
prayed, even while she was yet too weak to speak; and how she
felt the beauty and significance of the words, "Our Father!"
She was roused from this holy abstraction by the sound of Miss
Benson's voice. It was very much as if she had been crying.
"Look, Ruth!" it said softly, "my brother sends you these. They
are the first snowdrops in the garden." And she put them on the
pillow by Ruth; the baby lay on the opposite side.
"Won't you look at him?" said Ruth; "he is so pretty!"
Miss Benson had a strange reluctance to see him. To Ruth, in
spite of all that had come and gone, she was reconciled--nay,
more, she was deeply attached; but over the baby there hung a
cloud of shame and disgrace. Poor little creature! her heart was
closed against it--firmly, as she thought. But she could not
resist Ruth's low faint voice, nor her pleading eyes, and she
went round to peep at him as he lay on his mother's arm, as yet
his shield and guard.
"Sally says he will have black hair, she thinks," said Ruth. "His
little hand is quite a man's, already. Just feel how firmly he
closes it;" and with her own weak fingers she opened his little
red fist, and taking Miss Benson's reluctant hand, placed one of
her fingers in his grasp. That baby-touch called out her love;
the doors of her heart were thrown open wide for the little
infant to go in and take possession.
"Ah, my darling!" said Ruth, failing back weak and weary.
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