And he wrote it all to Mildred, as if praise were only pleasure,

As if fame were only honour, when he laid them in her hands.

Mildred heard it without wonder, as a sure result expected,

For how could it fail, since merit and renown go side by side:

And the neighbours who first fancied genius ought to be suspected,

Might at last give up their caution, and could. own him now with pride.

Years flowed on. These empty honours led to others they called better,

He had saved some slender fortune, and might claim his bride at last :

Mildred, grown so used to waiting, felt half startled by the letter

That now made her future certain, and would

consecrate her past.

He had gone forth with a spirit half of hope and half defiance;

He returned with proud assurance half disdainful and half cold.

Yet his old self seemed returning while he stood sometimes, and listened

To her calm soft voice, relating all the thoughts of these long years;

And if Mildred's heart was heavy, and at times her blue eyes glistened,

Still in thought she would not whisper aught of sorrow or of fears.

Autumn with its golden corn-fields, autumn with its storms and showers,

Had been there to greet his coming with its

forests gold and brown;

And the last leaves still were falling, fading still the year's last flowers,

When he left the quiet village, and took back his bride to town.

Home-the home that she had pictured many a time in twilight, dwelling

On that tender gentle fancy, folded round with loving care;

Here was home-the end, the haven; and what spirit voice seemed telling,

That she only held the casket, with the gem no longer there?

Sad it may be to be longing, with a patience faint

and weary,

For a hope deferred-and sadder still to see it fade and fall;

Yet to grasp the thing we long for, and, with sorrow sick and dreary,

Then to find how it can fail us, is the saddest

pain of all.

What was wanting? He was gentle, kind and

generous still, deferring

To her wishes always; nothing seemed to mar

their tranquil life:

There are skies so calm and leaden that we long for storm-winds stirring,

There is peace so cold and bitter, that we almost welcome strife.

Darker grew the clouds above her, and the slow conviction clearer,

That he gave her home and pity, but that heart, and soul, and mind

Were beyond her now; he loved her, and in youth he had been near her,

But he now had gone far onward, and had left her there behind.

Yes, beyond her: yes, quick-hearted, her Love helped her in revealing

It was worthless, while so mighty; was too weak, although so strong;

There were courts she could not enter; depths she could not sound; yet feeling

It was vain to strive or struggle, vainer still to mourn or long.

He would give her words of kindness, he would talk of home, but seeming

With an absent look, forgetting if he held or dropped her hand;

And then turn with eager pleasure to his writing, reading, dreaming,

Or to speak of things with others that she could not understand.

He had paid, and paid most nobly, all he owed; no need of blaming;

It had cost him something, may be, that no future could restore :

In her heart of hearts she knew it; Love and Sorrow, not complaining,

Only suffered all the deeper, only loved him all

the more.