I thought of the Sacrament of my baby's baptism, which was to exorcise
all the devils out of my child--and then of the worst devil in the
world, poverty, which was taking her very life.
After that a dark shadow crossed my soul, and I told myself that since
God was doing nothing, since He was allowing my only treasure to be torn
away from me, I would fight for my child's life as any animal fights for
her young.
By this time a new kind of despair had taken hold of me. It was no
longer the paralysing despair but the despair that has a driving force
in it.
"My child shall not die," I thought. "At least poverty shall not kill
her!"
Many times during the day I had heard Mrs. Oliver trying to comfort me
with various forms of sloppy sentiment. Children were a great trial,
they were allus makin' and keepin' people pore, and it was sometimes
better for the dears themselves to be in their 'eavenly Father's boosim.
I hardly listened. It was the same as if somebody were talking to me in
my sleep. But towards nightfall my deaf ear caught something about
myself--that "it" (I knew what that meant) might be better for me, also,
for then I should be free of encumbrances and could marry again.
Pages:
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968