"'That doll's jest a visitin' lady,' says she, 'but Loujaney, she's my child. Mr. Flint made her a-purpose for me, same's God made me for you, ma, an' she's mine by bornation. I can live with Loujaney. I ain't a mite ashamed afore her when we ain't got nothin', but I turn 'tother's face to the wall so she won't know. Loujaney's pore folks same's you an' me, an' she knows prezac'ly how 't is. That's why I love her so much.
"An' day an' night," resumed the drawling voice, "them two's been together. She jest lived an' et an' slept with that doll. If ever a doll gits to grow feelin's, Loujaney's got 'em. I s'pose I'd best give that visitin' doll to some child that wants it bad, but I ain't got the heart to take Loujaney away from her ma. I'm a-goin' to let them two go right on sleepin' together.
"Mr. Flint, suh, seein' Louisa liked you so much, an' it's you she'd want to have it—" she leaned over, pushed the thick fair hair aside, and laid her finger upon a very whimsy of a curl, shorter, paler, fairer than the others, just above the little right ear.
"Her pa useter call that the wishin' curl," said she, half apologetically. "You see, suh, he was a comical sort of man, an' a great hand for pertendin' things. I never could pertend. Things is what they is an' pertendin' don't change 'em none. But him an' her was different. That's how come him to pertend the Lord'd put the rainbow's pot o' gold in Louisa's hair with a wish in it, an' that ridic'lous curl one side her head, like a mark, was the wishin' curl. He'd pertend he could pull it twict an' say whisperin', 'Bickery-ickery-ee—my wish is comin' to me,' an' he'd git it. An' she liked to pertend 'twas so an' she could wish things on it for me an' git 'em. ... Clo'es an' shoes an' fire an' cake an' beefsteak an' butter an' stayin' home. ... Just pertendin', you see.
"Mr. Flint, suh, I ain't got a God's thing any more to wish for, but you bein' the sort o' man you are, I'd rather 'twas you had Louisa's wishin' curl, to remember her by." Snip! went the scissors; and there it lay, pale as the new gold of spring sunlight, curling as young grape-tendrils, in the Butterfly Man's open palm.
"Silver and gold have I none; but such as I have give I thee," said the great Apostle to the lame man who lay beside the gate of the temple that is called, Beautiful.
"I ain't got nothin' else," said the common mill-woman; and laid in John Flint's hand Louisa's wishing-curl.
He stared at it, and turned as pale as the child on her pillow. The human pity of the thing, its sheer stark piercing simplicity, squeezed his heart as with a great hand.
"My God!" he choked. "My—God!" and a rending sob tore loose from his throat. For the first time in his life he had to weep; uncontrolled, unashamed, childlike, fatherly, brotherly. For he had experienced, unselfishly, on account of one of the humblest of God's creatures, one of the great divine emotions. And when that happens to a man it is as if his soul were winnowed by the wind of an archangel's wings.
Westmoreland and I slipped out and left him with the woman. She would know what further thing to say to him.