Sweetest li’l feller, etc.
(With head still raised, after she has finished, she closes her eyes. Half to herself and slowly) I think the loveliest thing of all the lovely things in this world is just (almost in a whisper) being a mother!
Mrs. Loving (Turns and laughs): Well, of all the startling children, Rachel! I am getting to feel, when you’re around as though I’m shut up with dynamite. What next? (Rachel rises, goes slowly to her mother, and kneels down beside her. She does not touch her mother). Why so serious, chickabiddy?
Rachel (Slowly and quietly): It is not kind to laugh at sacred things. When you laughed, it was as though you laughed—at God!
Mrs. Loving (Startled): Rachel!
Rachel (Still quietly): It’s true. It was the best in me that said that—it was God! (Pauses). And, Ma dear, if I believed that I should grow up and not be a mother, I’d pray to die now. I’ve thought about it a lot, Ma dear, and once I dreamed, and a voice said to me—oh! it was so real—“Rachel, you are to be a mother to little children.” Wasn’t that beautiful? Ever since I have known how Mary felt at the “Annunciation.” (Almost in a whisper) God spoke to me through some one, and I believe. And it has explained so much to me. I know now why I just can’t resist any child. I have to love it—it calls me—it—draws me. I want to take care of it, wash it, dress it, live for it. I want the feel of its little warm body against me, its breath on my neck, its hands against my face. (Pauses thoughtfully for a few moments). Ma dear, here’s something I don’t understand: I love the little black and brown babies best of all. There is something about them that—that—clutches at my heart. Why—why—should they be—oh!—pathetic? I don’t understand. It’s dim. More than the other babies, I feel that I must protect them. They’re in danger, but from what? I don’t know. I’ve tried so hard to understand, but I can’t. (Her face radiant and beautiful). Ma dear, I think their white teeth and the clear whites of their big black eyes and their dimples everywhere—are—are (Breaks off). And, Ma dear, because I love them best, I pray God every night to give me, when I grow up, little black and brown babies—to protect and guard. (Wistfully). Now, Ma dear, don’t you see why you must never laugh at me again? Dear, dear, Ma dear? (Buries her head in her mother’s lap and sobs).
Mrs. Loving (For a few seconds, sits as though dazed, and then instinctively begins to caress the head in her lap. To herself) And I suppose my experience is every mother’s. Sooner or later—of a sudden she finds her own child a stranger to her. (To Rachel, very tenderly) Poor little girl! Poor little chickabiddy!
Rachel (Raising her head): Why do you say, “Poor little girl,” like that? I don’t understand. Why, Ma dear, I never saw tears in your eyes before. Is it—is it—because you know the things I do not understand? Oh! it is that.
Mrs. Loving (Simply): Yes, Rachel, and I cannot save you.
Rachel: Ma dear, you frighten me. Save me from what?