Then Ruth would snatch up the dropped work, and stitch away with drooping eyes, from which the hot tears fell fast; and Miss Benson was then angry with herself, yet not at all inclined to agree with Sally when she asked her mistress "why she kept 'mithering' the poor lass with asking her for ever what was the matter, as if she did not know well enough." Some element of harmony was wanting--some little angel of peace, in loving whom all hearts and natures should be drawn together, and their discords hushed.
The earth was still "hiding her guilty front with innocent snow," when a little baby was laid by the side of the pale white mother.

It was a boy; beforehand she had wished for a girl, as being less likely to feel the want of a father--as being what a mother, worse than widowed, could most effectually shelter.

But now she did not think or remember this.

What it was, she would not have exchanged for a wilderness of girls.

It was her own, her darling, her individual baby, already, though not an hour old, separate and sole in her heart, strangely filling up its measure with love and peace, and even hope.