So the next day they buried the poor young woman, and soon after the
young man went away and sailed off to America, and from that day to
this Mrs. Newton had never heard anything of him.
As she had said, that poor little motherless babe lay in her bosom,
and was unto her as a daughter; she loved it; she loved it when it
was a helpless little thing, weak and sickly; she loved it when it
grew a pretty lively baby, and would set its little feet on her
knees, and crow and caper before her face; she loved it when it began
to play around her as she sat at work, to lisp out the word "Ganny,"
for she taught it to call her grandmother; she loved it when it would
follow her into her nice garden, and pick a flower and carry it to
her, as she sat in the little arbor; and she, holding the flower,
would talk to it of God who made the flower, and made the bee that
drew honey from the flower, and made the sun that caused the flower
to grow, and the light that gave the flower its colors, and the rain
that watered it, and the earth that nourished it. And she loved that
child when it came back from the infant school, and climbed up on her
lap, or stood with its hands behind its back, to repeat some pretty
verses about flowers, or about the God who made them.
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