And naught would satisfy but he must go,
Although I begged him not with tearful eyes.
He met my prayers with stronger arguments;
“Bless you, my mother; you were always kind!
You would not hinder me from doing well?
And this may be my fairest chance in life;"
He said, and pictured what good things he'd do
When he returned.—We ne'er again should know
The pangs of want, and I should no more toil,
But live quite like a lady-so he said-

Well, in the spring, he and a neighbour's son,
Staunch mates from boys-both of an age and size-
Swore lasting friendship, to defend and aid
And see each other safely home again,

And hurried off with buoyant hearts, to cross
Tempestuous seas and unknown lands for gold.

Just twelve months after that, my second-born,
A chaste and tender lass, with auburn hair
And lily features soft and delicate,
Had yielded up her maiden life to one
Ralph Wooliscroft, a brawny collier lad.
They took and bought and milked a cow,
Across the moor some half-a-mile from us ;
And now had proved one year of married life.
Ah me! a twelve years' lapse works change indeed.
The bairns that then all crowded in one nest
Were widely scattered now, and one a wife,
Would soon be mother too, if all went well,
But I had little time to think and brood;
My hands were full of work: beside my own,
I had to look to her. She always was

A very delicate and feeble thing;

But now she looked so tender and so frail,
No gaze fell on her, but the spirit sighed;
She was a very sadness to the soul.

It seemed impressed upon her mind for weeks
She should not live it o'er; and though I coaxed,
But oftener chid her for her childishness,

She soon forgot herself and rambled on-
"If aught should happen to me, you'll see to all;
You'll lay me quietly in such a nook,

And so and so I'd like to bear me there.

If aught should happen me you'll take this dress,
And when 'tis trimmed afresh, and bits let in,
'Twill make a nice warm winter's frock for you.
If aught should happen me, you'll love poor Ralph
Dear as your own? Ah me, he'll be so lone !"
And though I rallied her, pooh-pooh'd and such,
Yet, heavens! how my yearning spirit ached!

"If it should live, and should be motherless,
There's such and such I'd like stored up for it:
And this or that will make it something, when
'Tis grown a bit : and in the chest of drawers
My work you will find, the key of which
Is in my pocket here; if you will look

Deep in one corner, 'neath my Sunday cuffs,
There's three scrawled notes, a valentine, a rose ;
And in one frame, portraits of Ralph and me,
Mementoes of our joyous courting days;
Please lay them by, till it shall understand
How dear they should be for a mother's sake.
And, mother, I have something on my mind;

Say, will you promise me, if I should die,
To take my child and bring it up for God ?"
This was too much, 'twas like a serpent's sting,
Or dagger's thrust to me; to think that I

Who ne'er had taught my children how to pray;
Who on the hearth of home had never reared
A hallowed shrine, round which the wandering feet
That toiled all day, might meet to pray at night;
To think that I, a mother, godless yet,
Should, 'neath so searching gaze, be asked by one
Who might have lived to brand me with neglect,
Nay, might in time have cursed me in the pit,
To take her child and bring it up for God!
My heart was bubbling up, my throat was full.
She took my hand in hers with fond caress,
And stroked it restlessly with either hand,
And looked at me with tender, pleading look—
"It would be better so," she said, as in
Apology for having asked too much,

"Ralph might! I do not know;" she looked at me Half sadly, half enquiringly-" might in

Awhile a good long while you know;" she paused,
Then added, "when the first fierce storm was o'er,
And he had grown more lone than sorrowful,

Might find another he could love so well;
One who would love him not more dear than I,
But one who might be stronger, and might live
And fill his home with lots of winsome bairns,
And all his great good heart with tender joy.
If this should be—I do not say it will—
But if it should; in the far years to come,

When all the past was dead and I forgot
Except in name, and may be, now and then,
In melancholy hours, to truant thoughts,

My child might" Here she stopped and bowed
Her head upon her breast and sobbed; and I—
I sobbed as well; for oh, my heart was full,

I drew the drooping head upon my breast,
And stroked the glossy hair, and kissed the lips,
And pressed her close, so close, as though she were
A little child again.

And from that day

A shadow gathered slowly round my heart;

I never once believed the words she said,

But deemed them drooping thoughts, love phantasies, Or plaintive babblings of a sick, spoiled child.

And yet, in quiet hours, they haunted me,

Like prophet-whispers from an unseen hand.

The days went on, and came the dreaded time, And sick anxiety, strained by suspense

Unto the highest tension, settled calm,

And waited still, with fever-starting eye.

'Tis strange how calm one is, in hours like these, When only half the weight-the pain we feel, Would make us rave and weep a sea of tears. 'Twas in the gloaming that I stood and gazed Out through the windows on the far away→ The misty twilight settled softly down, And from the drowsy blue, the solemn stars Stole silently; and came a flittering breeze With soothing cadence like a lullaby, And rustled mid the garlands of the hills,

And uttered by the reedy, lisping brooks,

Low whisperings of prayer. 'Twas strange that I
Should think, "How mild it is for April weather,
How sweet a night 'twill be for the tired soul
To start upon its wanderings, should she die."

At last 'twas o'er, the anguish, doubt and dread,
And racked suspense, and agonizing hope,
Were with anticipation buried in

Uncertainty's dim grave; and glad surprise
Rose up with kindling eye and quivering lip
And dropped upon their dust a rain of tears-
Relieving tears of thankfulness and joy!
As bright-eyed spring wakes from the lethargy
Of sorrow's mute prostration, and comes forth
And o'er the tomb of patriarch winter, weeps
The soothing droppings of her April grief.

The child was born-a wee, white, darling boy,
And all went well, ay, marvellously well;
Grim-harnessed death seemed never farther off;
And sweet security, and new-born joy
Incontinently laughed, with feverish mirth,
At credulous fancy brooding in the shade-
Pronounced, for once, a lying prophet sprite.

How beautiful that morn my sweet child looked! How quietly she lay ! how softly smiled

In all the luxury of listlessness!

How tenderly she kissed her fair first-born!
What glad gleams of gratitude she cast above!
What blessings quivered on her voiceless lips!
How full my heart was as I bent o'er them,
To feel their warm breath flutter on my cheek;