Morton's. "Rachel Weeping for her Children;" something of the pathetic
maternal agony, as for a lost babe, had seemed to cross her face as she
spoke of her little ones. I found out afterwards that, though she wore
no mourning, Mrs. Morton had lost a beautiful infant about four months
ago. It had not been more than six weeks old, but the mother's heart was
still bleeding. Many months afterwards she told me that she often
dreamed of her little Muriel--she had only been baptised the day before
her death--and woke trying to stifle her sobs that she might not disturb
her husband. I sat cogitating this imaginary picture of mine, and
shuddering over the sanguinary details, until Mrs. Morton returned, and,
to my embarrassment, her husband was with her.
I gave him a frightened glance as he crossed the room with rapid
footsteps. He was a quiet-looking man, with a dark moustache, some years
older than his wife. His being slightly bald added somewhat to his
appearance of age. In reality he was not more than five and thirty. I
thought him a little cool and critical in manner, but his voice was
pleasant. He looked at me keenly as he spoke; it was my opinion at that
moment that not an article of my dress escaped his observation.
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