It was a pretty sight to see the mother with her
year-old daughter out among the fresh, green things: the little
golden head bobbing here and there like a stray sunbeam; the baby
voice telling sweet, unintelligible stories to bird and bee and
butterfly; or the small creature fast asleep in a basket under a
rose-bush, swinging in a hammock from a tree, or in Bran's keeping,
rosy, vigorous, and sweet with sun and air, and the wholesome
influence of a wise and tender love.
While Christie worked she planned her daughter's future, as mothers
will, and had but one care concerning it. She did not fear poverty,
but the thought of being straitened for the means of educating
little Ruth afflicted her. She meant to teach her to labor heartily
and see no degradation in it, but she could not bear to feel that
her child should be denied the harmless pleasures that make youth
sweet, the opportunities that educate, the society that ripens
character and gives a rank which money cannot buy. A little sum to
put away for Baby, safe from all risk, ready to draw from as each
need came, and sacredly devoted to this end, was now Christie's sole
ambition.
With this purpose at her heart, she watched her fruit and nursed
her flowers; found no task too hard, no sun too hot, no weed too
unconquerable; and soon the garden David planted when his life
seemed barren, yielded lovely harvests to swell his little
daughter's portion.
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