The suspense, the
pain, the torture of fear could end only with that signal moment of
identification. Though the group respected her sorrow in silence, they
themselves experienced the rigors of uncertainty and agitation when the
log cabin came into view amidst the laurel, and every man of them trooped
in, following her, when the door opened and she was ushered into the
little, low-ceiled room, so mean, so rough, so dingy of hue. But for her
it held the wealth of the universe, the joy of all the ages. There upon
the bed lay her sleeping child, larger, more vigorous, than she
remembered him, garbed in a quaint little garment of blue gingham; his
blond hair clipped close, save for two fine curls on top, worn indeed
like a scalp-lock; his long lashes on his cheeks, rosy ripe; his red lips
slightly parted; his fine, firm-fleshed, white arms tossed above his
head; his long, bare legs and plump, dimpled feet stretched out at their
full length. His lips moved with an unformulated murmur as her
hysterical, quavering scream of joyful recognition rang through the room.
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