A little dark-eyed daughter came to us, and Louis
and I were father and mother. She had full dark eyes like his, Clara's
mouth, and a little round head that I knew would be covered with sunny
curls, because this would make her the picture I had so longed to see.
"Darling baby-girl, why did you linger so long? We have waited till our
hope had well-nigh vanished," and the dark eyes turned on me for an
answer, which my heart read, "It is well."
Louis named her "Emily Minot Desmonde." It was his wish, and while, as I
thought, it ill suited the little fairy, I only said:
"May she never be called 'Emily did it.'"
"May that be ever her name," said Louis, "for have you not yourself done
that of which she will be always proud, and when we are gone will they
who are left not say of you, 'Emily did it'?
"Ah! my darling, you have lost and won your title, and it comes back
shaped and gilded anew, for scores of childish lips have echoed it, and
'Emily did it' is written in the indelible ink of the great charity
which has given them shelter."
"Louis, too," I said, and he answered:
"Had I not found my Emily, I could never have undertaken it. You cannot
know how I gathered lessons from your happy home. In my earliest years I
was dissatisfied with the life which money could buy. I did not know the
comforts of work and pleasure mingled, and it was here, under these
grand old hills, while communing with nature, I sought and found the
presence of its Infinite Creator; and your smile, your presence, was a
promise to me which has been verified to the letter.
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