The Argosy — page 388: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

370 The Village Blacksmith. him. And the baby—Janet had not a doubt, he must have taken that with him. } Why? For what purpose? It was now a little after one o’clock, and Janet had been awake when the kitchen clock struck twelve, so an hour was the outside limit to the start her father had of her. But oh! what might he not do with her baby in an hour? He was delirious, no doubt, when he robbed her. Mere anger would never so far have transported him, A crowd of thoughts passed through Janet’s mind as she hastily threw on some clothes. Her shawl, which she had left in the kitchen, was gone. No doubt he had wrapped the child in it. She had no time to look for another. She rushed to the door in her hat and dress, forgetting she was locked in; but neither locks nor bolts could avail to keep the frantic mother a prisoner. She was nimble, though large, and to squeeze herself out of the window in Reuben’s room was the work of a minute. Once outside the cottage, she had no notion where to go. True, there was not much choice. She must either go up or down, for there was no road to the right or left; and, perhaps because to go down was the easier course, rather than from any real motive ; per- haps her guardian-angel guided her steps; she ran down the hill as fast as her legs could carry her. Fortunately, the bright moonlight enabled her to see all around her; so, if Reuben were within sight, she would be sure to discover him. Janet, having passed her life in a hill-country, was sure-footed; but, on looking back on that night in after years, it was a marvel to her how she ever reached the valley in safety, for the path was both steep and rough, and she plunged down it like a mad, hunted creature, feeling like one intoxicated. She seemed to have lost control of her limbs, and, if her feet touched the ground, as she knew they did, she did not feel it. Her calm nature was stirred to a pitch of excitement she had not known herself to be capable of feeling ; it seemed that her previous existence had been a dream, and she had suddenly awakened to the consciousness that life possessed powers of suffering and of enjoyment beyond her conception. The truth was, Janet was a woman whose strongest passion was maternal love. She was an affectionate daughter, a devoted and loving wife, but her child had called forth the ruling passion of her nature ; and, until she missed it from her side, she was not aware how strong were the fibres by which the little creature had wound itself round her heart. She was terrified now by the strength of her own feelings. The purest of all passions is maternal love. Filial love is a beautiful thing, conjugal love a holy thing, but maternal love is more. And, being the purest, it is also the strongest of all passions, the most lasting, the most unselfish, but it is only felt in all its full strength by the pure in heart. ECOMicbooolkxs.com @