She longed for quiet; but she heard a foot
Pass once again, and beckoned through the trees.
"Laurance!" And all impatient of unrest

And strife, ay, even of the sight of them,
When he drew near, with tired, tired lips,
As if her soul upbraided him, she said,

"Why have you done this thing?" He answered

her,

"I am not always master in the fight:

I could not help it."

"What!" she sighed, "not yet! O, I am sorry ; and she talked to him As one who looked to live, imploring him, "Try to forget me. Let your fancy dwell Elsewhere, nor me enrich with it so long; It wearies me to think of this your love. Forget me!"

He made answer, "I will try :
The task will take me all my life to learn,
O, were it learned, I know not how to live;
This pain is part of life and being now,

It is myself; but yet but I will try."

-

Then she spoke friendly to him, of his home,

His father, and the old, brave, loving folk;

She bade him think of them. And not her words, But having seen her, satisfied his heart.

He left her, and went home to live his life,

And all the summer heard it said of her,

"Yet, she grows stronger; " but when autumn came Again she drooped.

A bitter thing it is To lose at once the lover and the love; For who receiveth not may yet keep life

In the spirit with bestowal.

This Muriel, all was gone.

But for her,

The man she loved,

Not only from her present had withdrawn,
But from her past, and there was no such man,
There never had been.

He was not as one

Who takes love in, like some sweet bird, and holds
The winged fluttering stranger to his breast,
Till, after transient stay, all unaware

It leaves him: it has flown. No; this may live
In memory,
- loved till death. He was not vile;
For who by choice would part with that pure bird,
And lose the exaltation of its song?

He had not strength of will to keep it fast,
Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, nor life
Of thought to make the echo sound for him
After the song was done. Pity that man :
His music is all flown, and he forgets
The sweetness of it, till at last he thinks
'Twas no great matter. But he was not vile,
Only a thing to pity most in man,

Weak, only poor, and, if he knew it, undone.
But Herbert! When she mused on it, her soul
Would fain have hidden him for evermore,

Even from herself, - so pure of speech, so frank,
So full of household kindness. Ah, so good
And true! A little, she had sometimes thought,
Despondent for himself, but strong of faith
In God, and faith in her, this man had seemed.

Ay, he was gone! and she whom he had wed,
As Muriel learned, was sick, was poor, was sad.
And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and send,
From her small store, money to help her need,
With, "Pray you keep it secret.' Then the whole
Of the cruel tale was told.

What more? She died.

But no.

Her kin, profuse of thanks, not bitterly,
Wrote of the end. "Our sister fain had seen
Her husband; prayed him sore to come.
And then she prayed him that he would forgive,
Madam, her breaking of the truth to you.
Dear Madam, he was angry, yet we think
He might have let her see, before she died,
The words she wanted, but he did not write
Till she was gone,
I neither can forgive,

Nor would I if I could."

"Patience, my heart!

And this, then, is the man I loved!

He sought a lower level, for he wrote,
Telling the story with a different hue,
Telling of freedom.

But yet

He desired to come,

"For now," said he, "O love, may all be well." And she rose up against it in her soul,

For she despised him. And with passionate tears Of shame, she wrote, and only wrote these words, – "Herbert, I will not see you."

66

Again; it is so bitter to despise;

Then she drooped

And all her strength, when autumn leaves down

dropped,

Fell from her. "Ah!" she thought,

once,

I rose up

I cannot rise up now; here is the end."
And all her kinsfolk thought, "It is the end."

But when that other heard, "It is the end,”
His heart was sick, and he, as by a power
Far stronger than himself, was driven to her.
Reason rebelled against it, but his will

Required it of him with a craving strong
As life, and passionate though hopeless pain.
She, when she saw his face, considered him
Full quietly, let all excuses pass

Not answered, and considered yet again.

"He had heard that she was sick; what could he do But come, and ask her pardon that he came?" What could he do, indeed?. a weak white girl

Held all his heartstrings in her small white hand; His youth, and power, and majesty were hers, And not his own.

She looked, and pitied him, Then spoke: "He loves me with a love that lasts. Ah me! that I might get away from it,

Or, better, hear it said that love Is NOT,

And then I could have rest. My time is short,
I think, so short." And roused against himself
In stormy wrath, that it should be his doom
Her to disquiet whom he loved, ay, her
For whom he would have given all his rest,
If there were any left to give, he took
Her words up bravely, promising once more
Absence, and praying pardon; but some tears
Dropped quietly upon her cheek.

"Remain,"

She said, "for there is something to be told,
Some words that you must hear.

"And first, hear this:

God has been good to me;

you must not think

That I despair. There is a quiet time.

Like evening in my soul. I have no heart,

For cruel Herbert killed it long ago,

And death strides on. Sit. then, and give your mind To listen, and your eyes to look at me.

Look at my face, Laurance, how white it is;

my beauty is all gone."

Look at my hand, -
And Laurance lifted up his eyes; he looked,

But answered, from their deeps that held no doubt,
Far otherwise than she had willed: they said,

"Lovelier than ever."

Yet her words went on,

Cold, and so quiet, "I have suffered much,
And I would fain that none who care for me
Should suffer a like pang that I can spare.
Therefore," said she, and not at all could blush,
"I have brought my mind of late to think of this:
That since your life is spoilt (not willingly,

My God, not willingly by me), 'twere well
To give you choice of griefs.

"Were it not best

To weep for a dead love, and afterwards
Be comforted the sooner, that she died
Remote, and left not in your house and life
Aught to remind you? That indeed were best.
But were it best to weep for a dead wife,
And let the sorrow spend and satisfy
Itself with all expression, and so end?

I think not so; but if for you 'tis best,

Then, - do not answer with too sudden words: It matters much to you; not much, not much then truly I will die your wife;

To me,

I will marry you."

What was he like to say, But, overcome with love and tears, to choose The keener sorrow, take it to his heart, Cherish it, make it part of him, and watch

Those eyes, that were his light, till they should close?

He answered her with eager, faltering words,

"I choose, my heart is yours, - die in my arms.