"You shall see your boy as soon as money can get him here."
"Oh, Mas'r Louis!" and he grasped both his hands; "de Lord help this ole
nigger to pay you. I's willin' to work dese fingers clean to de bone."
Our two boys got on bravely. The first Saturday night we sent them home
with loaded baskets, and each with a pail of new milk, which we knew
would be a treat to the children, and in their little purses the amount
promised by Louis. Matthias took them to their homes, and Louis went
for them on Monday morning, and when he returned he said:
"The pictures are growing, Emily. Bright eyes and rosy cheeks will come
soon."
Mr. and Mrs. Waterman were leaving us. We were kissing "our baby"
good-bye. How we disliked to say the word! And when looking back at
Matthias after we started, she cried, "Mah, mah!" I laughed and cried
together. Louis and I parted with them reluctantly at the depot, and our
last words were:
"Send John right along."
"We will," they answered, as the train rode away and baby Allie pressed
her shining face against the window. It was only two weeks and two days
from that day that Louis, Clara and I (she said after our marriage "Call
me Clara, for we are sisters--never say 'mother Desmonde;' to say mother
when you have such a blessed one of your own is robbery to her") drove
to the depot to meet John. Matthias said to us,
"You go fur him, ef you please, fur I can never meet him in de crowd; I
want to wait by de road an' see him cum along.
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