Later, when John had gone to do the chores, the old doctor still sat by
Cornelia's bed. He took the girl's hand in his--an unusual demonstration of
feeling for a mountaineer--and said to her, gently,
"Cornely, there won't never be no mo'--there'll be nair another baby to
you, honey."
The stricken girl fastened her eyes upon his in dumb pain and protest. She
said nothing, the wound was too deep; only her lips quivered pitifully and
the tears ran down upon the pillow.
"Now, now, honey, don't ye go to fret that-a-way. W'y, Cornely, ye was made
for a mother; the Lord made ye for such--an' do ye 'low 'at He don't know
what He's a-gwine to do with the work of His hands? 'For mo' air the
children of the desolate'--don't ye know Scripter says?--than of them that
has many. Lord love ye, honey, girl, you'll be mother to a minny and a
minny. They air a-comin'; the Lord's a-sendin' 'em. W'y, honey,--you and
John will have children gathered around you--"
The one cry broke forth from Cornelia which she ever uttered through all
her long grief of childlessness: "Oh, but, Dr. Pastergood, I wanted
mine--my own--and John's! Oh, I reckon it was idolatry the way I felt in my
heart; I thought, to have a little trick-bone o' my bone, flesh o' my
flesh--look up at me with John's eyes--" A sob choked her utterance, and
never again was it resumed.
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