han one of us. Not a shilling
has he to bless himself with, and I am sure he does not care one
farthing for you, and will be glad that the child is off his hands."

"Oh, he loves me; indeed, indeed, he loves me and the child. Oh, he will
grieve for the child. Mrs. Strawberry, if ever you were a mother
yourself, have pity upon me, and show me the baby."

She caught the woman by the hand, and looked up in her face with such
an expression of longing intense desire, that, harsh as she was, it
melted her stony heart; and, going to a closet, she returned with the
babe in her arms. It was dressed in its little cap, and long white
night-gown--a cold image of purity and perfect peace.

"Oh, mine own! mine own!" wailed the young mother, pressing the cold
form against her breast, as she rocked to and fro on the pillow. "My
blessed innocent boy! You have left me for ever, and ever, and ever. My
child! my infant love! I have wept for you--prayed for you--while yet
unborn, have blessed you. Your smiles would have healed up the deep
wounds of my broken heart. Together we would have wandered to some
distant land, where reproaches, and curses, and blows, would never have
found us; and we would have been happy in each's other's love--so happy!
Ah, my murdered child! I call upon you, but you cannot hear me! I weep
for you, but you are unconscious of my grief. Ah, woe is me! What shall
I do, a-wanting thee? My heart is empty; the world is empty. Its
promises are false--its love departed. My child is dead, and I am
alone--alone--alone."

"Come, give me the babe, Mary! I hear your brother's step upon the
stair."

"You shall not have it!" cried the girl, starting up in the bed, her
eyes flashing fire. "Hush! your loud voice will waken him. He is mine.
God gave him to me; and you shall not tear him from me. No other hand
shall feed and rock him to sleep but mine.

"Lullaby, baby! no danger shall come,
My breast is thy pillow, my heart is thy home;
That poor heart may break, but it ever shall be
True, true to thy father, dear baby, and thee!

"Weep, mother, weep, thy loved infant is sleeping
A sleep which no storms of the world can awaken;
Ah, what avails all thy passionate weeping,
The depths of that love which no sorrow has shaken?

"All useless and lost in my desolate sadness,
No sunbeam of hope scatters light through the gloom;
Instead of the voice of rejoicing and gladness,