"And keep it regenerated?" she echoed. "Do you know?"
"Do you remember telling me, long ago, of a story in which the woman
said she had never seen but one man whose mother she would be willing
to be? And you said you felt so about me? I was very proud of it then,
but I am prouder of it now, since, feeling so, you cannot be unwilling
to be the mother of my children. You are not, are you?"
She nestled a little closer to him, and put her hand about his neck.
He stooped and kissed it, and repeated his question.
"Unwilling? No; how could I be? I never dreaded maternity except
when--and that lasted such a little while. I do not dread it now. It
seems to me it would be a blessed thing for us. But, Adam, Adam, tell
me, for I have sat here all day asking myself, whether it is a blessed
thing to be born, or a penalty that others pay."
"I think it would be a blessing to be your son," he said steadily.
"And I think it would be a benediction to be yours," she answered;
"but he would not be yours nor mine, but ours, plus everything in the
past, verily heir of all the ages, and the ages were full of pain and
sorrow. Oh," she said passionately, "could you and I who love him so,
this son who is only our wish, could you and I who know the weight of
this weary world, bind it upon the shoulders of our baby boy, and send
him staggering down the centuries, the new Atlas of this old earth?"
They sat in silence for a long time. Then Adam said slowly, "I don't
know, dearest; but I do know that you are tired and hungry, and I am
going to take you home."
They rose and disappeared through the gateway together.