Up the stairs I ran to the wan mother and whimpering
babe, to the sanctuary on whose altar a life at my bidding had
offered itself to win a life, and won. What is this tiny
formless thing, this newborn wail from an unknown world,
--all head and voice? I handle it curiously, and watch per-
plexed its winking, breathing, and sneezing. I did not love it
then; it seemed a ludicrous thing to love; but her I loved, my
girl-mother, she whom now I saw unfolding like the glory of
the morning--the transfigured woman. Through her I came to
love the wee thing, as it grew strong; as its little soul un-
folded itself in twitter and cry and half-formed word, and as
its eyes caught the gleam and flash of life. How beautiful he
was, with his olive-tinted flesh and dark gold ringlets, his
eyes of mingled blue and brown, his perfect little limbs, and
the soft voluptuous roll which the blood of Africa had moulded
into his features! I held him in my arms, after we had sped
far away from our Southern home,--held him, and glanced
at the hot red soil of Georgia and the breathless city of a
hundred hills, and felt a vague unrest.
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