"This is the happiest time--before the child comes," she said one day, and
added, with the observant eye of mothers, "it will be a boy; there is a
pink lining to the basket."
"Yes, it will be a boy," replied Virginia, wistfully.
"I have had six," pursued the woman, "six sons, and yet I am alone now.
Three are dead, and three are in the army. I am always listening for the
summons that means another grave." She clasped her thin hands and smiled
the patient smile that chilled Virginia's blood.
"Couldn't you have kept one back?" asked the girl in a whisper.
The woman shook her head. Much brooding had darkened her mind, but there
was a peculiar fervour in her face--an inward light that shone through her
faded eyes.
"Not one--not one," she answered. "When the South called, I sent the first
two, and when they fell, I sent the others--only the youngest I kept back
at first--he is just seventeen. Then another call came and he begged so
hard I let him go. No, I gave them all gladly--I have kept none back."
She lowered her eyes and sat smiling at her folded hands. Weakened in body
and broken by many sorrows as she was, with few years before her and those
filled with inevitable suffering, the fire of the South still burned in her
veins, and she gave herself as ardently as she gave her sons. The pity of
it touched Virginia suddenly, and in the midst of her own enthusiasm she
felt the tears upon her lashes.
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