Clayton rose to her feet and stretched
out two gaunt hands longingly,--"Thaddeus, I get so hungry sometimes for
Jehiel and Hannah Jane, seems as though I jest couldn't stand it!"
"I know--I know, dearie," quavered the old man, vigorously polishing his
glasses.
"Fifty years ago my first baby came," resumed the woman in tremulous
tones; "then another came, and another, till I'd had six. I loved 'em,
an' tended 'em, an' cared fer 'em, an' didn't have a thought but was fer
them babies. Four died,"--her voice broke, then went on with renewed
strength,--"but I've got Jehiel and Hannah Jane left; at least, I've got
two bits of paper that comes mebbe once a month, an' one of 'em's signed
'your dutiful son, Jehiel,' an' the other, 'from your loving daughter,
Hannah Jane.'"
"Well, Harriet, they--they're pretty good ter write letters," ventured
Mr. Clayton.
"Letters!" wailed his wife. "I can't hug an' kiss letters, though I try
to, sometimes. I want warm flesh an' blood in my arms, Thaddeus; I want
ter look down into Jehiel's blue eyes an' hear him call me 'dear old
mumsey!' as he used to. I wouldn't ask 'em ter stay--I ain't
unreasonable, Thaddeus. I know they can't do that."
"Well, well, wife, mebbe they'll come--mebbe they'll come this summer;
who knows?"
She shook her head dismally.
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