I
haven't heard hymn-singing for years, before. I've lived in mining
and such places. I want to ask you a question."
The woman paused.
"Do you suppose my baby's at the River?" she went on.
Addie hardly comprehended the woman's meaning.
"What river?" asked the girl.
"The River they sang about last night," explained the woman.
She motioned toward the group at the distant camp-fire, and Addie
remembered that on the previous evening the people had sung:
"Shall we gather at the river?"
"I haven't heard that sung before for years and years," the woman
continued. "We used to sing it when I was a little girl at home in
the East, but I've mostly forgot such things. Mining camps and a
drunk husband make you forget. There never was a church anywhere we
lived, and Sam got drunk Sundays. And then he died. I don't suppose
Sam got to the River. I don't know. I wish he did. But if my baby's
got there, I want to go to the River."
The woman began to sob.
"I never told you about my baby." she faltered." He was a dreadful
nice little-"
"Good-morning!" said Mrs. Weeks pleasantly.
baby. I've got some of his things in a little box in the wagon. He
died after his father did. I wouldn't feel acquainted with the
saints that the folks sang gather at the River; but I'd feel
acquainted with my baby. He's there, isn't he?"
"Yes," said Addie softly, "your baby's by the River, and you can go
there, too.
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