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Mr. And Mrs. Blossom
by
“I heard she was sick,” said he, coming up to the cradle and taking the baby’s hand awkwardly, but tenderly, in his. “You can never know how I have suffered all day, for this little one has grown very dear to me, and I dare not think what I should do if evil were to befall her. To-night I told my wife a lie. I said that I had a business engagement that called me downtown; I told her that in order to hasten here without letting her know the truth. She does not like children; I would not for the world have her know how tenderly I love this little one.”
He was still talking to me in this wise when I heard a step upon the stairway. I went to the door and opened it. Mrs. Blossom stood there.
“I have worried all day about the baby,” she said, excitedly. “Fortunately, Mr. Blossom was called downtown this evening, and I have run in to ask how our precious baby is. I must go away at once, for he does not care for children, you know, and I would not have him know how dear this babe has grown to me!”
Mrs. Blossom stood on the threshold as she said these words. And then she saw the familiar form of the dear old gentleman bending over the cradle, holding the baby’s hands in his. Mr. Blossom had recognized his wife’s voice and heard her words.
“Mary!” he cried, and he turned and faced her. She said, “Oh, John!”–that was all, and her head drooped upon her breast. So there they stood before each other, confronted by the revelation which they had thought buried in long and many years.
She was the first to speak, for women are braver and stronger than men. She accused herself and took all the blame. But he would not listen to her self-reproaches. And they spoke to each other–I know not what things, only that they were tender and sweet and of consolation. I remember that at the last he put his arm about her as if he had not been an aged man and she were not white-haired and bowed, but as if they two were walking in the springtime of their love.
“It is God’s will,” he said, “and let us not rebel against it. The journey to the end is but a little longer now; we have come so far together, and surely we can go on alone.”
“No, not alone,” I said, for the inspiration came to me then. “Our little child yonder–God has lent this lambkin to our keeping–share her love with us. There is so much, so very much you can do for her which we cannot do, for we are poor, and you are rich. Help us to care for her and share her love with us, and she shall be your child and ours.”
That was the compact between us fifteen years ago, and they have been happy, very happy years. Blossom–we call her Blossom, after the dear old friends who have been so good to her and to us–she comes from school to-night, and to-morrow we shall sit down to Thanksgiving dinner with our daughter. We always speak of her as “our daughter,” for, you know, she belongs now no more to Cordelia and me than to Mr. and Mrs. Blossom.