Than what she gave in buying what she sold :
She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus,
Expectant of that news which never came,
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance,
And lived a life of silent melancholy.
Now the third child was sickly born and grew
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it
With all a mother's care: nevertheless,
Whether her business often call'd her from it,
Or thro' the want of what it needed most,
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell
What most it needed - howsoe'er it was,
After a lingering, -ere she was aware, -
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly,
The little innocent soul flitted away.
In that same week when Annie buried it, Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her),
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long.
Surely," said Philip, "I may see her now, May be some little comfort"; therefore went, Past thro' the solitary room in front, Paused for a moment at an inner door, Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief, Fresh from the burial of her little one, Cared not to look on any human face,
But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept.
Then Philip standing up said falteringly, "Annie, I came to ask a favor of you.'
He spoke; the passion in her moan'd reply,
"Favor from one so sad and so forlorn
As I am!" half abash'd him; yet unask'd,
His bashfulness and tenderness at war,
He sets himself beside her, saying to her:
"I came to speak to you of what he wish'd,
Enoch, your husband: I have ever said
You chose the best among usa strong
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. And wherefore did he go this weary way, And leave you lonely? not to see the worldFor pleasure? -nay, but for the wherewithal
To give his babes a better bringing-up
Like one who does his duty by his own, Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake,
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port,
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish,
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit,
The late and early roses from his wall,
Or conies from the down, and now and then,
With some pretext of fineness in the meal
To save the offence of charitable, flour
From his tall mill that whistled on the waste.
But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind: Scarce could the woman when he came upon her,
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude Light on a broken word to thank him with. But Philip was her children's all-in-all; From distant corners of the street they ran To greet his hearty welcome heartily;
Than his had been, or yours: that was his Lords of his house and of his mill were they:
And if he come again, vext will he be
To find the precious morning hours were lost.
And it would vex him even in his grave,
If he could know his babes were running
wild
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie,
Have we not known each other all our lives?
I do beseech you by the love you bear
Him and his children not to say me nay -
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs. Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd
As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them
Uncertain as a vision or a dream,
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn
Down at the far end of an avenue,
Going ye know not where; and so ten years,
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land,
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came.
It chanced one evening Annie's children | That I love them as if they were mine own; long'd
To go with others, nutting to the wood,
And Annie would go with them; then they
begg'd
For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too:
Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust,
Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and say-
ing to him,
"Come with us Father Philip," he denied ;
But when the children pluck'd at him to go,
He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish,
For was not Annie with them? and they went.
But after scaling half the weary down,
Just where the prone edge of the wood began
To feather toward the hollow, all her force
Fail'd her; and sighing "Let me rest" she
said:
So Philip rested with her well-content;
While all the younger ones with jubilant
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or
broke
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other
And calling, here and there, about the wood.
But Philip sitting at her side forgot
Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life
He crept into the shadow: at last he said
Lifting his honest forehead, "Listen, Annie,
How merry they are down yonder in the
"Tired, Annie?" for she did not speak a word.
"Tired?" but her face had fall'n upon her
hands;
At which, as with a kind of anger in him,
"The ship was lost," he said, "the ship was
lost!
No more of that! why should you kill yourself
And make them orphans quite?" And Annie
said,
"I thought not of it: but I know not why-
Their voices make me feel so solitary."
Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke.
"Annie, there is a thing upon my mind,
And it has been upon my mind so long,
That tho' I know not when it first came there,
I know that it will out at last. O Annie,
It is beyond all hope, against all chance,
That he who left you ten long years ago
Should still be living; well then - let me
speak:
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help :
I cannot help you as I wish to do
Unless they say that women are so quick-
Perhaps you know what I would have you
I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove
A father to your children: I do think
They love me as a father. I am sure
And I believe, if you were fast my wife,
That after all these sad uncertain years,
We might be still as happy as God grants
To any of His creatures. Think upon it:
For I am well-to-do- no kin, no care,
No burthen, save my care for you and yours;
And we have known each other all our lives,
And I have loved you longer than you know."
Then answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke: "You have been as God's good angel in our house.
God bless you for it, God reward you for it,
Philip, with something happier than myself.
Can one love twice? can you be ever loved
As Enoch was? what is it that
you ask?"
"I am content," he answer'd, "to be loved
A little after Enoch." "O, she cried,
Scared as it were, " dear Philip, wait a while:
If Enoch comes-but Enoch will not come-
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long:
Surely I shall be wiser in a year:
O wait a little!" Philip sadly said,
Annie, as I have waited all my life
I well may wait a little." 'Nay," she cried,
I am bound: you have my promise-in a
Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?"
And Philip answer'd, "I will bide my year.'
Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead;
Then fearing night and chill for Annie rose,
And sent his voice beneath him thro' the
wood.
Up came the children laden with their spoil;
Then all descended to the port, and there
At Annie's door he paused and gave his
hand,
Saying gently, "Annie, when I spoke to you,
That was your hour of weakness. I was
No meaning there she closed the book and slept:
When lo her Enoch sitting on a height, Under a palmtree, over him the Sun: "He is gone," she thought, "he is happy, he is singing
Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms
Whereof the happy people strowing cried 'Hosanna in the highest!"" Here she woke, Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, "There is no reason why we should not wed." "Then for God's sake," he answer'd, "both our sakes,
So you will wed me, let it be at once."
So these were wed and merrily rang the
bells,
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed.
But never merrily beat Annie's heart.
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path,
She knew not whence; a whisper on her ear,
She knew not what; nor loved she to be left
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone.
What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd,
often
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch,
Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew:
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