“But these people are poor,” said Mr. Bonstone, “and that room seems half full of children.”
“They are very good to each other,” said Ellen simply, “but they would be very glad to get rid of it. She wants you to have it, too. See her face.”
The poor young woman, brushing back her long, thick, black hair from her clammy-looking forehead, motioned to the girl to give her the baby.
She could not hold it properly, on account of the pain in her back. Her groans were dreadful, but she steadied herself, and pulled a cross out of the breast of her gown—the poor creature had no nice white nightie like rich ladies. She was in bed with her street dress on.
She wanted Mr. Bonstone to swear on the crucifix that he would be good to her child.
The scene was pitiful, and Mr. Bonstone, strong man as he was, almost broke down. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he bit his lip painfully. He took the cross in his hands—he promised solemnly to provide for the child, and if he could not keep it himself, to find a good home for it.
The poor creature could not understand a word he said, but she knew just as well what he was saying, as if she had been born in America. Her child was safe, and something told me that her mother-soul was deeply gratified that a person evidently rich and of good position would stand between the cold world and her little, helpless, brown baby.
She took the baby on one arm, and began to kiss and caress it for the last time, for Ellen had told her that the gentleman wished to take it away. Her moans of pain, and her broken exclamations of mother-love were too heart-rending. I could not stand it, and ran out into the hall.
Mr. Bonstone came out presently with the baby in his arms. “This is awful,” he said to Ellen. “Why did they not send her to the hospital?”
“You don’t understand these people, sir. They don’t know what hospitals are. If they do, they are frightened of them. She begged to stay with her child. She has had good attention, sir. You see she wasn’t brought up like you.”