“Why, Drusilla,” she said, “you are but sixteen years old. When your son is grown up, say at twenty, you will be but thirty-six, in the very maturity of a healthy woman’s strength and beauty. Your son will be your dearest friend and companion; if you have lost somewhat of the wife’s happiness, you will have an unusual share of the mother’s joy. You are still so young, such a mere child yourself, that you may take your little son by the hand with the prospect of going nearly the whole journey of life together. You will be his playfellow in his childish sports; his fellow student in his boyish studies, and his comrade in his youthful travels. You will go on in life and grow old together—or almost together.” “Oh, so we will. I did not think of it before. I was thinking that the mother of a grown son must be quite an aged lady. Alick’s mother was quite aged and infirm.” “Yes, because she was forty-four years old when Alick was born, which makes some difference, you know,’ laughed Anna.” There was silence a little while and then Anna said, “You will have much joy in your son, if the Lord should spare him to you, Drusilla.” “The Lord _will_ spare him to me. I feel convinced of it,” answered the young mother reverently. “And every year—nay, every month—your joy will increase; for as his affections and intelligence develop, he will grow more and more interesting and attractive to you.” “It seems to me that he could scarcely ever be more interesting and attractive than he is now. Look at him, Anna. See how beautiful are his mute, faint efforts to express the love he feels, but does not understand. ‘Touch is the love sense.’ He knows that, at least; and see how his little hands tremble up towards mine and then drop; and see the smile dawning in his eyes, and fluttering around his lips, as if uncertain of itself? Will you tell me, at what time of a child’s existence it is sweeter and lovelier than now in its first budding into life?” Before Anna could answer the question, the door was opened by mammy, who chirpingly announced: “Here is Leo, from Cedarwood, ma’am, bringing letters for you.” And she closed the door, leaving Leo standing before his astonished mistress. “It is my footman from my old home, dear Anna,” explained Drusilla. Then, turning to the messenger, she held out her hand and said: “How do you do, Leo? You have letters for me?” Leo slowly took a packet from his pocket, handed them over to his mistress, and then, lifting both his hands to his eyes, burst out crying and ROARED as only a negro boy with his feelings hurt can do. “Why, what is the matter?” anxiously inquired Drusilla, pausing in the examination of her letters, in her pity for the distress of the boy—“What is the matter, my poor Leo?”