Two little girls and one stout boy laughed and jabbered their queer talk with their mother and father. The mother held a baby on her knee—an odd-looking fat baby, with a funny cap on its head.
Mr. Cary sat down on a trunk, at a little distance from them, and lifting Julia upon his knee, he said,
“My darling will learn that she and I must be, in one way, poor as long as we live. What has that little trot-foot got that money cannot buy for my Julia?”
Julia looked at the shiny, apple-cheeked little Dutch girl who came shyly towards her. She noticed the thin dress, the heavy shoes, the ugly net over her yellow hair. Surely, Julia bought for herself lovelier things than those.
Julia kept thinking. The strange child too was thinking, and drew so near that she was scared at last to find herself so far from her mother. She turned and ran back. The mother held out her arm, hugged the little girl close to her heart, and kissed her between her blue eyes.
That kiss told Julia what her father meant. Laying her head upon his shoulder, she said, “I know, papa; she has her own dear mother. But mine—O papa!”
Julia’s tears choked back the words that might have told you her dear mother was in heaven.
Sitting there, Julia and her father felt how very poor she was in losing mother-love and care and kisses, like that which blessed those little strangers. The Germans had no house, no land—had only money enough to take them West, where they must work hard all day, early and late. But they had each other.
They might tell us that life and love are God’s best blessings. Health and wealth are also his rich gifts, but not so dear—oh no! oh no!
