She hushed the child in a mechanical way—being none the less tender and patient the while—as though her arms were long accustomed to the burden, her heart used to the pain.
“There haven’t ever been no child,” said she, looking up, after a moment, “like this—afore—t’ Bowsprit Head.”
My sister was silent.
“No,” the woman sighed; “not like this one.”
“Come, come, ma’m!” I put in, confidently. “Do you leave un t’ the doctor. He’ll cure un.”
She looked at me quickly. “What say?” she said, as though she had not understood.
“I says,” I repeated, “that the doctor will cure that one.”
“Cure un?” she asked, blankly.
“That he will!”
She smiled—and looked up to the sky, smiling still, while she pressed the infant to her breast. “They isn’t nobody,” she whispered, “not nobody, ever said that—afore—about my baby!”