I remember that the Jew's threat made no impression upon my mind. It
mattered very little to me where I was to lodge next week or what roof
was to cover me.
When I reached the Olivers' that morning I found baby distinctly worse.
Even the brandy would not stay on her stomach and hence her strength was
plainly diminishing. I sat for some time looking steadfastly into my
child's face, and then I asked myself, as millions of mothers must have
done before me, why my baby should suffer so. Why? Why? Why?
There seemed to be no answer to that question except one. Baby was
suffering because I was poor. If I had not been poor I could have taken
her into the country for fresh air and sunshine, where she would have
recovered as the doctor had so confidently assured me.
And why was I poor? I was poor because I had refused to be enslaved by
my father's authority when it was vain and wrong, or my husband's when
it, was gross and cruel, and because I had obeyed the highest that was
in me--the call of love.
And now God looked down on the sufferings of my baby, who was being
killed for my conduct--killed by my poverty!
I tremble to say what wild impulses came at that thought.
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