If it had died—his dear little child that he had never seen—he should like to stand beside its grave. If it had lived, and the young mother, in her desperation, had cast it off, he should like to have it—should like to carry it home to his mother, and, telling her some of the circumstances of his secret marriage, ask her to cherish it for the sake of its lovely young mother, who was dead.
Yes, he would tell her that the child's mother was dead. That would be best; no one should learn the secret of Lord Ivon's great-granddaughter.
"The child will be all mine, but that fair, proud beauty is not for me," he sighed, then pulled himself together with a start. "I am dreaming! Of course the child is dead. But I will go to Virginia all the same."
[CHAPTER LIII.]
Few of us find our cherished dreams come true, but Laurie Meredith had that pleasure, for on Poky's cabin floor he found his own child playing—a dimpled tot of three years, with Flower's arch and lovely face lighted by his own brown eyes.
Poky did not attempt to deny the truth. She was only too happy to see Laurie Meredith and confide to him the whole story of her possession of the child.
"I lied about it before for Miss Flower's sake," she said. "She was so terribly 'fraid of Miss Jule dat she wouldn't 'low me to tell de trufe eben to Sam, and she stole away, leabing de baby for dead in my arms, and Lor', what a shock it gin me to feel, it move presently and open its big eyes at me! 'Twan't dead at all, only smothered like for a few minutes. Well, Miss Flower were gone den, so I concluded to take keer o' de little one till she come back. But, Lor', she never did come back, and I began to think she must be dead, when one day dere came a letter wid a money order for five hundred dollars from ober in Lon'on. I ain't got no friends in Lon'on, and says I to myself, 'tis from Miss Flower. She done got rich somehow, but dere warn't no 'dress in de letter, so what could I do to let her know dat little Douglas was alive arter all? Nuthin', Massa Meredith, and I wouldn't never send word to you 'cause I'se feard you wouldn't keer 'bout my sweet little Douglas. But bein' as you has found it out, I'se glad, 'cause how I've been worried nights thinkin' as how 'twan't right to raise that little w'ite chile along o' my black one!" for Poky had a two-year-old, a bright image of Sam, playing about the cabin floor.
Laurie Meredith took the bright, neatly dressed Douglas in his arms and told him that he was his own papa, and that he was going to carry him a long ways off to live with his dear grandmamma in Boston.