"Fessenden's fool!" cries the lady. "What's your name?"
"Please, Ma'am, that's my name." Meekly spoken, with an earnest, staring
face. "Do you want me?"
"No; we don't want a boy with such a name as that!"
And the lady scowls, and shakes her head, and half closes the forbidding
door,--not thinking of that other mother's heart,--never dreaming that
such a gaunt and pallid wight ever had a mother at all. For the idea
that those long, lean hands, reaching far out of the short and split
coat-sleeves, had been a baby's pure, soft hands once, and had pressed
the white maternal breasts, and had played with the kisses of the fond
maternal lips,--it was scarcely conceivable; and a delicate-minded
matron, like Mrs. Gingerford, may well be excused for not entertaining
any such distressing fancy.
"Wal! I'll go!" And the youth turned away.
She could not shut the door. There was something in the unresentful, sad
face, pale cheeks, and large eyes, that fascinated her; something about
the tattered clothes, thin, wet locks of flaxen hair, and ravelled straw
hat-brim, fantastic and pitiful.
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