The work I was doing was not the only kind I
was capable of. After I had liberated myself from the daily extortions
of the Olivers I should be free to look about for more congenial and
profitable employment; and then by and by baby and I might live together
in that sweet cottage in the country (I always pictured it as a kind of
Sunny Lodge, with roses looking in at the window of "Mary O'Neill's
little room") which still shone through my dreams.
I spent some sleepless nights in reconciling myself to all this, and
perhaps wept a little, too, at the thought that after years of
separation I might be a stranger to my own darling. But at length I put
my faith in "the call of the blood" to tell her she was mine, and then
nothing remained except to select the institution to which my only love
and treasure was to be assigned.
Accident helped me in this as in other things. One day on my westward
journey a woman who sat beside me in the tram, and was constantly wiping
her eyes (though I could see a sort of sunshine through her tears),
could not help telling me, out of the overflowing of her poor heart,
what had just been happening to her.
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