It softened her grief to find so much genuine friendliness and good-will
in the hearts of even the strangers about her; and when she wailed for
baby through the lonely nights, so sadly missing the clasp of his warm,
soft arms about her neck, there was no bitterness mingled with her
sorrow.
"He has gone to his mother," she wrote Miss Prue. "I sometimes think she
must have longed for him even in heaven; and I hope she knows that, if I
ever neglected him, it was only because I felt compelled."
To which the good spinster answered,--"You have never neglected him,
Sara; to that I am ready to bear witness. If God has seemed to bereave
you, it is because he sees it is best; meanwhile, take comfort in this:
you have been tenderer than many mothers, and more patient than many
sisters, to this dear little brother who loved you so well, so do not
let self-reproach add to your sorrow."
The words were a comfort, as they were meant to be; for, with the girl's
supreme conscientiousness, she had been torturing herself for fear she
had not done all that was possible for her dear one; and, as Miss Prue's
word had always been law with her, so now she let it heal this
unnecessary smart.
CHAPTER XV.
MORTON HAS A PICNIC.
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