The burthen of Conanchet was on his arm. He laid it
upon a table; then pointing, in a manner that appeared to challenge
attention, he turned, and left the room as abruptly as he had entered.
A cry of joy burst from the lips of Narra-mattah, the instant the beaded
belts caught her eye. The arms of Ruth relaxed their hold in surprise, and
before amazement had time to give place to more connected ideas, the wild
being at her knee had flown to the table, returned, resumed her former
posture, opened the folds of the cloth, and was holding before the
bewildered gaze of her mother the patient features of an Indian babe.
It would exceed the powers of the unambitious pen we wield, to convey to
the reader a just idea of the mixed emotions that struggled for mastery in
the countenance of Ruth. The innate and never-dying sentiment of maternal
joy was opposed by all those feelings of pride, that prejudice could not
fail to implant even in the bosom of one so meek. There was no need to
tell the history of the parentage of the little suppliant, who already
looked up into her face, with that peculiar calm which renders his race so
remarkable.
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