Och! it wor a purty
darlint, it wor; an' it's me own heart that's sore for her the day,
forbye your'n that's her borned mother; and, if it wor my own life
that 'ud fetch her back to yees"--
But here the long breath on which Mrs. Ginniss had started came to
an end, and with it the impulse of consolation and self-defence that
had so far sustained her; and with a wild cry of "Wurra, wurra! och
the black day that's in it!" she sank upon a chair, and buried her
head in her apron, sobbing loudly.
The visitor, hardly regarding her, still stood in the centre of the
little room, her sad eyes wandering over its humble furniture and
adornments as if each one were a relic.
"Are there some little things of hers, clothes or playthings or
books,--any thing she touched or loved?" asked she presently in a
hushed voice.
Mrs. Ginniss, still crying, rose, and opened a drawer in the pine
bureau, which, with a looking-glass and some vases of blue china
upon it, stood as the ornamental piece of furniture of the place.
"Here they bees, ivery one uv 'em, and poor enough for her, an' yit
the bist we could git," said she.
More as a bird, long restrained and suddenly set free, would dart
toward the tree where nest and young awaited it, than in the
ordinary mode of human movement, the mother, so long hungering for
smallest tidings of her child, darted upon this sudden mine of
wealth, and, bending low, seemed to caress each object with her eyes
before touching it.
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