“It fills me with despair to think of my little Owlet in the power of that man—that man who deserted his young wife and child when the child was but three months old—that man who has no conscience and no affection, who uses the child only as a scourge to drive me into a position which I could not accept, even for that dear child’s sake. I say it fills me with despair, Dr. Shaw.”
“My dear Roma, as you cannot contest his claim to his own child, as you cannot accept the terms upon which he offers to restore her—as, in fact, you can do nothing in this case, you must leave all in the hands of Divine Providence. Hanson is an irreligious, unprincipled man; yet, as he has more money than he knows what to do with, he will take good care of his own little daughter. You may assure yourself of that.”
In this manner the good minister would seek to raise her drooping spirits.
One glorious forenoon, early in May, as Roma was seated in her Quaker rocking-chair, on her front piazza, engaged in her “contemplative knitting work,” with the little colored child, Ducky Darling, seated at her feet, nursing Owlet’s bull pup, George Thomas, she heard the sound of wheels.
Looking up, she saw a gig rolling along the acacia drive toward the house. As it drew nearer she recognized the venerable figure of the aged minister seated within it, with another, of a young, grave, clerical-looking man, beside him.
Puck, who was hoeing a flower bed in front of the house, dropped the hoe and ran forward to take the horse’s head, just as the minister drew up the gig before the door.
Roma also arose, and came down the steps to receive the visitors, while Ducky Darling, with George Thomas in her arms, waddled away, in fear of the stranger.
Dr. Shaw alighted, followed by his companion, and threw the reins to the negro.
“Mus’ I take de hoss an’ gig ayound to de stable, sah?” inquired Puck, touching his hat to the clergyman.
“Yes; of course,” quickly struck in Roma, speaking for her old pastor before he could open his lips.