Evelina stretched out her yearning arms. “Gin him ter me!”
“Naw, naw, Eveliny,” huskily whispered Absalom's mother. “Ye oughter kem hyar an' 'bide with yer husband—ye know ye ought.”
Evelina still held out her insistent arms. “Gin him ter me!” she pleaded.
The old woman shook her head sternly. “Ye kem in, an' 'bide whar ye b'long.”
Evelina took a step nearer the window. She laid her hand on the sill. “Spos'n 'twar Abs'lom whenst he war a baby,” she said, her eyes softly brightening, “an' another woman hed him an' kep' him, 'kase ye an' his dad fell out—would ye hev 'lowed she war right ter treat ye like ye treat me—whenst Abs'lom war a baby?”
Once more she held out her arms.
There was a step in the inner shed-room; then silence.
“Ye hain't got no excuse,” the soft voice urged; “ye know jes how I feel, how ye'd hev felt, whenst Abs'lom war a baby.”
The shawl had fallen back from her tender face; her eyes glowed, her cheek was softly flushed. A sudden terror thrilled through her as she again heard the heavy step approaching in the shed-room. “Whenst Abs'lom war a baby,” she reiterated, her whole pleading heart in the tones.
A sudden radiance seemed to illumine the sad, dun-colored folds of the encompassing cloud; her face shone with a transfiguring happiness, for the hustling old crone had handed out to her a warm, somnolent bundle, and the shutter closed upon the mists with a bang.