Her strong, hard, cruel nature fought tigerishly up again from the horrible blow of my news.  She was frightened almost to swooning at the thing that I told and my denunciation, and the deep answering stab of her own conscience.  But her angry iron will rallied with an effort which must have been an agony; her face became human again, and, looking straight and defiantly at me, she said, yet with difficulty,

“Ah!  I’ll see if my husband’ll hev sech things said to me!  That’s all!”

And she turned and went straightway out of my house, erect and steady as ever.

It may seem a trifling story, and its lesson a trifling one.  But it is not so,—­neither trifling nor needless.

It is a rare thing, indeed, for a woman in this America to long and love to have children.  The only two women whom I know in this large town who do are Mrs. O’Reilly, the mother of poor Bridget, and—­one more.

Poor old Mrs. O’Reilly!  She came to me this morning, and sat in my kitchen, and cried so bitterly, and talked in her strong Corkonian brogue, and rocked herself backwards and forwards, and shook abroad the great lambent banners of her cap-border,—­a grotesque old woman, but sacred in her tender motherhood and her great grief.  Her first coming was to peddle blackberries in the summer.  I asked her if she picked them herself.

“Och thin and shure I’ve the childher to do that saam,” said she.  And what wonderful music must the voice of her youth have been!  It was deep of intonation and heartfelt,—­rich and smooth and thrilling yet, after fifty years of poverty and toil.  “And id’s enough of thim that’s in id!” she added, with a curious air of satisfaction and reflectiveness.

“How many children have you?” I inquired.

She laughed and blushed, old woman though she was; and pride and deep delight and love shone in her large, clear, gray eyes.

“I’ve fourteen darlins, thank God for ivery wan of thim!  And it’s a purrty parthy they are!”

“Fourteen!” I exclaimed,—­“how lovely!” I stopped short and blushed.  My heart had spoken.  “But how “—­I stopped again.

The old blackberry-woman answered me with tears and smiles.  What a deep, rich, loving heart was covered out of sight in her squalid life!  It makes me proud that I felt my heart and my love in some measure like hers; and she saw it, too.

“An’ it’s yersilf, Ma’m, that has the mother’s own heart in yez, to be sure!  An’ I can see it in your eyes, Ma’m!  But it’s the thruth it’s mighty scarce intirely!  I do be seein’ the ladies that’s not glad at all for the dear childher that’s sint ’em, and sure it’s sthrange, Ma’m!  Indade, it was with the joy I did be cryin’ over ivery wan o’ me babies; and I could aisy laugh at the pain, Ma’m!  And sure now it’s cryin’ I am betimes because I’ll have no more!”

The dear, beautiful, dirty old woman!  I cried and laughed with her, and I bought ten times as many blackberries as I wanted; and Mrs. O’Reilly and I were fast friends.