Nature at first had sway, and to a degree
that was fearfully powerful.
"It is not our babe!" shrieked the mother, still holding the child at the
length of her arm, and gazing at its innocent and terrified countenance,
with an expression that Martha had never yet seen gleaming from eyes that
were, in common, so soft and so indulgent.
"I am thine! I am thine!" murmured the little trembler, struggling in vain
to reach the bosom that had so long cherished her infancy. "If not thine,
whose am I?"
The gaze of Ruth was still wild, the workings of her features hysterical.
"Madam--Mrs. Heathcote--mother!" came timidly, and at intervals, from the
lips of the orphan. Then the heart of Ruth relented. She clasped the
daughter of her friend to her breast, and Nature found a temporary relief
in one of those frightful exhibitions of anguish, which appear to threaten
the dissolution of the link which connects the soul with the body.
"Come, daughter of John Harding," said Content, looking around him with
the assumed composure of a chastened man, while natural regret struggled
hard at his heart; "this has been God's pleasure; it is meet that we kiss
his parental hand.
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