One of the visitors looked toward the road, and, unable to speak for laughter, pointed out poor Graffam, who, standing with his crazy hat in his hand, and his long shaggy hair falling in tangled masses over his neck and forehead, was now examining his great red hand, to see if it was clean enough to shake the delicate little hand cordially offered him.
"How is your babe this morning?" asked Emma.
"Better, thank you," replied Graffam; and growing warm-hearted in her sunlight, he told her how the little thing had smiled, and crowed at him; or began to tell, and then stopped short, fearing that he should forfeit her respect.
"It is a dear child," said Emma; "and perhaps, Mr. Graffam, it may please God to restore him to health, and he may grow up to bless the world."
Graffam started. The idea that a child of his should grow up to bless the world seemed too marvelous; "and yet," thought he, "I was not made for a curse."
"I hope that he may live," said the poor man sincerely; and wondered how that hope came, for formerly the child's life had been a matter of utter indifference to him.
"If it please God," added Emma.
"It has pleased God," said Graffam, "to lay three of my children beneath the sod, and perhaps it were better if they were all there, for we are——"
"Are what, sir?"
"Poor and despised, miss."