A SHADOW 229 
On the floor of some Southern hut, scarcely so 
comfortable as a dog-kennel, I have seen a 
dusky woman look down upon her infant with 
such an expression of delight as painter never 
drew. No social culture can make a mother’s 
face more than a mother’s, as no wealth can 
make a nursery more than a place where chil- 
dren dwell. Lavish thousands of dollars on 
your baby-clothes, and after all the child is 
prettiest when every garment is laid aside. 
That bewitching nakedness, at least, may adorn 
the chubby darling of the poorest home. 
I know not what triumph or despair may 
have come and gone through that wayside 
house since then, what jubilant guests may 
have entered, what lifeless form passed out. 
What anguish or what sin may have come be- 
tween that woman and that child; through 
what worlds they now wander, and whether 
separate or in each other’s arms, —this is all 
unknown. Fancy can picture other joys to 
which the first happiness was but the prelude, 
and, on the other hand, how easy to imagine 
some special heritage of human woe and call it 
theirs ! 
“T thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, 
Lord of thy house and hospitality ; 
And Grief, uneasy lover, might not rest 
Save when he sat within the touch of thee.” 
