It was very lonely; through the
thick forests, dark again with their heavy trees--along by the
river's side (but I had been brought up near the Avon in
Warwickshire, so that flowing noise sounded like home)--from
station to station, from Indian village to village, I went along,
carrying my child. I had seen one of the officer's ladies with a
little picture, ma'am--done by a Catholic foreigner, ma'am--of the
Virgin and the little Saviour, ma'am. She had him on her arm, and
her form was softly curled round him, and their cheeks touched.
Well, when I went to bid good-bye to this lady, for whom I had
washed, she cried sadly; for she, too, had lost her children, but
she had not another to save, like me; and I was bold enough to ask
her would she give me that print. And she cried the more, and said
her children were with that little blessed Jesus; and gave it me,
and told me that she had heard it had been painted on the bottom of
a cask, which made it have that round shape. And when my body was
very weary, and my heart was sick (for there were times when I
misdoubted if I could ever reach my home, and there were times when
I thought of my husband, and one time when I thought my baby was
dying), I took out that picture and looked at it, till I could have
thought the mother spoke to me, and comforted me.
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