Here there
seemed no disturbing element in her; a close observer might even have
said (and in this case I fancy I was that) that she had no mind or heart
for anything or anybody but these few of her blood and race. Hers was a
fine nature--high, wholesome, unselfish. Yet it struck me sadly also, to
see how the child-like in her, and her young spirit, had been so early
set to the task of defence and protection: a mother at whose breasts a
child had never hung; maternal, but without the relieving joys of
maternity.
I knew that she would carry through her life that too watchful, too
anxious tenderness; that to her last day she would look back and not
remember that she had a childhood once; because while yet a child she had
been made into a woman.
Such of the daughters of men make life beautiful; but themselves are
selfish who do not see the almost intolerable pathos of unselfishness and
sacrifice. At the moment I was bitter with the thought that, if Mrs.
Falchion intended anything which could steal away this girl's happiness
from her, even for a time, I should myself seek to retaliate--which was,
as may appear, in my power.
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