Hark! to that tiny wail! Ruth knows that most blessed of all hours. Ruth
is a _mother_! Joy to thee, Ruth! Another outlet for thy womanly heart;
a mirror, in which thy smiles and tears shall be reflected back; a fair
page, on which thou, God-commissioned, mayst write what thou wilt; a
heart that will throb back to thine, love for love.
But Ruth thinks not of all this now, as she lies pale and motionless
upon the pillow, while Harry's grateful tears bedew his first-born's
face. She cannot even welcome the little stranger. Harry thought
her dear to him before; but now, as she lies there, so like death's
counterpart, a whole life of devotion would seem too little to prove
his appreciation of all her sacrifices.
The advent of the little stranger was viewed through very different
spectacles by different members of the family. The doctor regarded it
as a little automaton, for pleasant Æsculapian experiments in his
idle hours; the old lady viewed it as another barrier between herself
and Harry, and another tie to cement his already too strong attachment
for Ruth; and Betty groaned, when she thought of the puny interloper,
in connection with washing and ironing days; and had already made up
her mind that the first time its nurse used her new saucepan to make
gruel, she would strike for higher wages.
Poor, little, unconscious "Daisy," with thy velvet cheek nestled up to
as velvet a bosom, sleep on; thou art too near heaven to know a taint
of earth.