The Mother of the Cagot.
Strange but beautiful is the strength of maternal affection. This object to all others so hideous—that for earth to hide his deformity, for death to close upon his afflictions, seems a boon to be prayed for, a mercy to be acknowledged with thankfulness—in the eyes of his mother is one of hope and of interest as great as the most perfect. She weeps not that he was born, but that he dies; weeps as passionately as the parent who loses the most beautiful, the most gifted offspring: perhaps more so than if he had been beautiful and gifted, for then he would not have been exclusively dependant on her love and care. Is it not right there should be a source in the desert as well as in the valley? Blessed is the illusion the mother’s heart lends to her eyes! yet alas! for the “Cagot,” the earth brings forth healing herbs in vain, the Church withholds her rites in vain. Their degradation, their destitution is appalling.