She never went to church. Her cherished sorrow grew morbid; her hopeless
hope became a monomania; her life narrowed down to one mournful
routine. She went nowhere but to the turnstile on the turnpike, where
she leaned upon the rotary cross, and watched the road.

Even to this day the pale, despairing, but most beautiful face of that
young watcher is remembered in that neighborhood.

Only very recently a lady who had lived in that vicinity said to me, in
speaking of this young forsaken wife--this stranger in our land:

"Yes, every day she walked slowly up that narrow path to the turnstile,
and stood leaning on the cross and gazing up the road, to watch for
him--every day, rain or shine; in all weathers and seasons; for months
and years."




CHAPTER XIX.

NOBODY'S SON.

Not blest? not saved? Who dares to doubt all well
With holy innocence? We scorn the creed
And tell thee truer than the bigots tell,--
That infants all are Jesu's lambs indeed.

--_Martin F. Tupper_.