And now the minister and his gentle wife had their own sorrow to bear.
_The baby was dead._
There are those to whom that phrase conveys but little meaning; there
are others whose every heart-string thrills to it. "The baby" may not be
pretty to any, save those who gave it being. Its first smile, its first
word, its first tottering step, are trifles all to the busy world
without; but ah, not in the little home circle: not to _him_ who
contending all day long with the jostling world of trade, sickened and
disgusted with its trickeries and overreaching, selfishness, and
duplicity, weary with the clamorous din of traffic, crosses at length
his own peaceful threshhold, and sitting down by that little cradle,
bends a brow seamed with care, over the little sleeper, with heaven's
own smile upon its lip, heaven's own purity on its baby brow.
Not to _her_; to whom its faintest smile were reward enough for mortal
pangs and throes; its faintest wail of pain loud enough to drown the
united call of hunger, thirst, and weariness.
Not to _those_ who, folding it to their _united_ hearts, say--_Our
baby_.
Is _their_ love the less when disease lays its withering finger on the
roses of its cheek and lip? Can they spare "the baby" even though other
children cluster round the hearth? And when death's shadow falls, can
they forget the night-watch nestling of that little velvet cheek? the
imploring look of that fading, upturned eye? Can such chords be rudely
snapped without a jarring discord? No, _let_ them weep; Jesus wept.
Inexpressibly dreadful is the touch of careless fingers upon the loved
dead; the careless robing and unrobing of limbs in life so dearly
cherished, so delicately draped.
Inexpressibly beautiful are the services weeping love jealously renders
to the departed; bearing on its own shoulders to its last resting-place
the coffin and the pall, lowering it carefully, reverently, as if the
pulseless heart within would be pained by a stranger touch.
It was Mary Clifton's own fingers which shrouded the baby; it was the
father's own hands which placed it in the coffin, it was in their own
arms by the light of the quiet stars, it was borne to its garden grave.
"Ridikilis!" exclaimed Dolly, "as if nobody was good enough to touch
that child; minister's folks, too, having sich stuck-up notions; as if
the child knew who carried it, as if the sexton didn't understand his
business, as if the whole village oughtn't to have seen 'em bury it, if
they wanted to. Polly Smith was up in a tree, and saw the whole of it.
She said she was determined to. She said they cried like every thing;
now that just shows how much they believe what they preach about
'heaven's being the best place;' if that is so, they'd naterally be glad
the young one had gone there; pooh, it is all stuff--they don't believe
it no more nor I do; any how, I shall make the most of this world, and
then, if there's nothing better in t' other, I shall have at least
gained something.
"It was perfectly ridikilis, there not being a funeral time; I should
have sold yards and yards of black ribbon, for the parish to wear; but
minister's folks never think of any body but themselves. I've found that
out."
Mary Clifton sits at her nursery-window; the empty cradle is by her
side, with its snowy pillow and coverlid, the baby's rattle lies on the
mantle, and its little cloak and silken hood hang just in sight within
the closet.
That window was her favorite seat; there she used to toss the baby up
and down, to catch the woodbine branches that clambered over the open
window; _they_ still stirred with life--but oh, where was the little
dimpled hand, so late outstretched in glee to reach them?
Just one short week ago that day (before "the baby" was taken sick), oh,
how well she remembered it, how bright it looked that morning, with its
snowy frock and blue ribbons, she stood just in that spot with it; a
pane of glass had lately been broken, and the cement in the new one was
yet fresh; the baby pressed its tiny little finger on it, and left its
impress. No wonder Mary sits there passing her own finger slowly over
the indentation, while the tears chase each other down her face; oh, to
how many maternal hearts have such memories been at once a sorrow and a
solace?