“I—­I wanted the baby,” sobbed Charlotte, tremulously.  “I was so lonely here.  I didn’t think it was any harm to take her, because Jane gave her to me in her letter.  But you have saved her life, Rosetta, and you—­you can have her back, although it will break my heart to give her up.  But, oh, Rosetta, won’t you let me come and see her sometimes?  I love her so I can’t bear to give her up entirely.”

“Charlotte,” said Miss Rosetta firmly, “the most sensible thing for you to do is just to come back with the baby.  You are worried to death trying to run this farm with the debt Jacob Wheeler left on it for you.  Sell it, and come home with me.  And we’ll both have the baby then.”

“Oh, Rosetta, I’d love to,” faltered Charlotte.  “I’ve—­I’ve wanted to be good friends with you again so much.  But I thought you were so hard and bitter you’d never make up.”

“Maybe I’ve talked too much,” conceded Miss Rosetta, “but you ought to know me well enough to know I didn’t mean a word of it.  It was your never saying anything, no matter what I said, that riled me up so bad.  Let bygones be bygones, and come home, Charlotte.”

“I will,” said Charlotte resolutely, wiping away her tears.  “I’m sick of living here and putting up with hired men.  I’ll be real glad to go home, Rosetta, and that’s the truth.  I’ve had a hard enough time.  I s’pose you’ll say I deserved it; but I was fond of Jacob, and—­”

“Of course, of course.  Why shouldn’t you be?” said Miss Rosetta briskly.  “I’m sure Jacob Wheeler was a good enough soul, if he was a little slack-twisted.  I’d like to hear anybody say a word against him in my presence.  Look at that blessed child, Charlotte.  Isn’t she the sweetest thing?  I’m desperate glad you are coming back home, Charlotte.  I’ve never been able to put up a decent mess of mustard pickles since you went away, and you were always such a hand with them!  We’ll be real snug and cozy again—­you and me and little Camilla Barbara Jane.”

V. THE DREAM-CHILD

A man’s heart—­aye, and a woman’s, too—­should be light in the spring.  The spirit of resurrection is abroad, calling the life of the world out of its wintry grave, knocking with radiant fingers at the gates of its tomb.  It stirs in human hearts, and makes them glad with the old primal gladness they felt in childhood.  It quickens human souls, and brings them, if so they will, so close to God that they may clasp hands with Him.  It is a time of wonder and renewed life, and a great outward and inward rapture, as of a young angel softly clapping his hands for creation’s joy.  At least, so it should be; and so it always had been with me until the spring when the dream-child first came into our lives.