The Mistress of the Manse | Page 5

the sickening
shock.
She took the hand so soiled and lean;
And silken robe and
ragged frock
Moved side by side across the green.
She looked for love, and, low and wild,
She found it--looking, too,
for love!
So in each other's eyes they smiled,
As, dark brown hand
in snowy glove,
The bride led home the hungry child.
And men and women in amaze
Paused in their homeward steps to see

The bride retreating from their gaze,
Clasped hand in hand with
misery;
Then brushed their eyes, and went their ways.
When the long parley found a close,
And, clean and kempt, the little
oaf--
Disburdened of her wants and woes,
And burdened with her
wheaten loaf--
Went forth to minister to those
Who sent her on her bitter quest,
The bride stood smiling at her door,

And in her happiness confessed
That she had found a friend; nay,
more--
Had entertained a heavenly guest.
And as she watched her down the street,
With brow grown bright
with sunny thought,
And heart o'erfilled with something sweet,
She

knew the vagrant child had brought
The blessing of the Paraclete.
She turned from out the blazing noon,
And sought her chamber's
quiet shade,
Like one who had received a boon
She might not show,
but which essayed
Expression in a happy croon.
And then, outleaping from the mesh
Of Memory's net, like bird or
bee,
There thrilled her spirit and her flesh
This old half-song,
half-rhapsody,
That sang, or said itself, afresh:
"Poor little wafer of silver!
More precious to me than its cost!
It
was worn of both image and legend,
But priceless because it was lost.

My chamber I carefully swept;
I hunted, and wondered, and wept;

And I found it at last with a cry:
"Oh dear little jewel!" said I;

And I washed it with tears all the day;
Then I kissed it, and put it
away.
"Poor little lamb of the sheepfold!
Unlovely and feeble it grew;
But
it wandered away to the mountains,
And was fairer the further it flew.

I followed with hurrying feet
At the call of its pitiful bleat,
And
precious, with wonderful charms,
I caught it at last in my arms,

And bore it far back to its keep,
And kissed it and put it to sleep.
"Poor little vagrant from Heaven!
It wandered away from the fold,

And its weakness and danger endowed it
With value more precious
than gold.
Oh happy the day when it came,
And my heart learned
its beautiful name!
Oh happy the hour when I fed
This waif of the
angels with bread!
And the lamb that the Shepherd had missed
Was
sheltered and nourished and kissed!"
XVII.
To Philip, Mildred was a child,
Or a fair angel, to be kept
From all
things earthly undenied,
One who upon his bosom slept,

And only
waked to be beguiled

From loneliness and homely care
By love's unfailing ministry;
No
toil of his was she to share,
No burden hers, that should not be
Left
for his stronger hands to bear.
His love enwrapped her as a robe,
Which seemed, by its supernal
charm,
To shield from every poisoned probe
Of earthly pain and
earthly harm
This one choice creature of the globe.
The love he bore her lifted him
Into a bright, sweet atmosphere

That filled with beauty to the brim
The world beneath him, far and
near,
And stained the clouds that draped its rim.
Toil was not toil, except in name;
Care was not care, but only means

To feed with holy oil the flame
That warmed her soul, and lit the
scenes
Through which her figure went and came.
Her smile of welcome was his meed;
Her presence was his great
reward;
He questioned sadly if, indeed,
He loved more loyally his
Lord,
Or if his Lord felt greater need.
And Mildred, vexed, misunderstood,
Knew all his love, but might not
tell
How in his thought, so large and good,
And in his heart, there
did not dwell
The measure of her womanhood.
She knew the girlish charm would fade;
She knew the rapture would
abate;
That years would follow when the maid,
Merged in the
matron, and sedate
With change, and sitting in the shade
Of a great nature, would become
As poor and pitiful a thing
As an
old idol, and as dumb,--
A clog upon an upward wing,--
A value
stricken from the sum
Which a true woman's hand would raise
To mighty numbers, and
endow
With kingly power and crowning praise.
She must be mate
of his; but how?
And, dreaming of a thousand ways

Her hands would work, her feet would tread,
She thought to match
him as a man!
His books should be her daily bread;
She would run
swiftly where he ran,
And follow closely where he led.
XVIII.
Since time began, the perfect day
Has robbed the morrow of its
wealth,
And squandered, in its lavish sway,
The balm and beauty of
the stealth,
And left its golden throne in gray.
So when the Sunday light declined,
A cold wind sprang and shut the
flowers
Then vagrant voices, undefined,
Grew louder through the
evening hours,
Till the old chimney howled and whined
As if it were a frightened beast,
That witnessed from its dizzy post

The loathsome forms and grewsome feast
And hideous mirth of
ghoul and ghost,
As on they crowded from the East.
The willow, gathered into sheaves
Of scorpions by