s of.

One day, when Mary could not help remarking upon her pale, weary looks,
Letty burst into tears, and confided to her a secret of which she was
not the less proud that it caused her anxiety and fear. As soon as she
began to talk about it, the joy of its hope began to predominate, and
before Mary left her she might have seemed to a stranger the most
blessed little creature in the world. The greatness of her delight made
Mary sad for her. To any thoughtful heart it must be sad to think what
a little time the joy of so many mothers lasts--not because their
babies die, but because they live; but Mary's mournfulness was caused
by the fear that the splendid dawn of mother-hope would soon be
swallowed in dismal clouds of father-fault. For mothers and for wives
there is no redemption, no unchaining of love, save by the coming of
the kingdom--_in themselves_. Oh! why do not mothers, sore-hearted
mothers at least, if none else on the face of the earth, rush to the
feet of the Son of Mary?

Yet every birth is but another link in the golden chain by which the
world shall be lifted to the feet of God. It is only by the birth of
new children, ever fresh material for the creative Spirit of the Son of
Man to work upon, that the world can finally be redeemed. Letty had no
_ideas_ about children, only the usual instincts of appropriation and
indulgence; Mary had a few, for she recalled with delight some of her
father's ways with herself. Him she knew as, next to God, the source of
her life, so well had he fulfilled that first duty of all parents--the
transmission of life. About such things she tried to talk to Letty, but
soon perceived that not a particle of her thought found its way into
Letty's mind: she cared nothing for any duty concerned--only for the
joy of being a mother.

She grew paler yet and thinner; dark hollows came about her eyes; she
was parting with life to give it to her child; she lost the girlish
gayety Tom used to admire, and the something more lovely that was
taking its place he was not capable of seeing. He gave her less and
less of his company. His countenance did not shine on her; in her heart
she grew aware that she feared him, and, ever as she shrunk, he
withdrew. Had it not now been for Mary, she would likely have died. She
did all for her that friend could. As often as she seemed able, she
would take her for a drive, or on the river, that the wind, like a
sensible presence of God, might blow upon her,