That night I took the train for New York, starting out all alone again, baby and I. I was tired and sleepy, but there was such joy in my heart as I thought of soon seeing my Soldier that I did not think of my discomforts. I repeated the telegram, "Edwards is better, Edwards is better," over and over again. I sang it as a lullaby, putting baby to sleep to the measure of the happy words, "Edwards is better." Only for us was that sweet refrain. When he slept I leaned back and closed my eyes and saw a world of beauty and bloom as the glad words went dancing through my heart. Was there ever so sweet a slumber-song since babies were invented to awaken the deepest melody of mother-hearts! I went to sleep with my little one in my arms. I had not money enough to get a berth—just barely enough to buy my ticket and pay my expenses through to Montreal, Canada, at which point the telegram was dated.
When I awakened later I found that a home-spun shawl had been placed under my head. I never thought about who had been so kind, nor why the shawl was there. All my life long everyone had been thoughtful of me; things had been done for me, courtesies had been extended to me, and I had learned to accept kindnesses as only what I had a right to expect from the human race. Murmuring softly the comforting words, "Edwards is better," I turned my face over and went to sleep again on the shawl and did not awaken until my baby became restless.
We took the steamer up the Hudson from New York to Albany. My poor little baby was not well and I censured myself for having allowed him to catch cold on the train while I was sleeping. He was teething, and was very fretful. He had been used to his nurse, his black mammy, and missed her customary care and attention and was tired of me, preferring anybody else. Some philanthropic ladies on board the steamer seemed very much concerned, and at a loss to understand why he was so unhappy with me, not knowing that he was accustomed to a circle of admiring friends to whom he might appeal in turn.
"Nurse, why do you not take the child to its mother?" one would say, and a look of incredulity would follow my assertion that I was its mother. "Then, why don't you quiet the child, if you are, and find out what is the matter with it?" and so on.
I was indignant and my manner must have made them think there was something wrong with me and the child, for they followed me about, asking intrusive questions and making offensive remarks. I was walking the deck, trying to quiet him, all tired and worn out as I was, when a gentleman came up to me. On his shoulder I recognized the shawl that had been put under my head on the cars the night before. He said:
"Madam, excuse me, but I do not think you have had any dinner, and you must be worn out with hunger and fatigue from fasting and carrying the baby. Won't you let me hold him while you go down and eat something?"
Even though he carried the shawl which bespoke my faith, I was afraid to trust him with so precious a treasure, and would rather have starved than have permitted my baby to go out of my sight.
"Thank you, very much, but I could not think of troubling you," I said. "No—oh, no."