And when they'd begin to whisper and sigh, I couldn't do less, you'll own,

Than draw sweet Bessie away with me, and leave the lovers alone.

We were out in the fields one summer's eve-how well I remember it still!—

And somehow we two had wander'd away from love-lorn Katie and Will,

Till we came in the dusk to the lone black mere, where the aspen branches wave,

And she coax'd me to tell her its legend grim of a love beyond the grave.

Then I look'd down into her soft brown eyes, with their witching and lustrous spell,

And I whisper'd, "Dear, I've another tale that I should like to tell!"

When we heard a merry shout from behind, and up came Willie and Kate,

And the loving words died out on my lips, and I knew my story must wait.

But she seem'd from that very time to grow more shy and distant, you see:

I never could meet her out alone, or tempt her to walk with

me;

And when I tried to draw her aside to whisper a loving word She'd flush and tremble, and flutter away, like a pretty frighten'd bird.

I saw she shunn'd me, and said to myself, with a proud and passionate throe,

"She loves me not, and would spare us both the pain of telling me so;

And I'd rather, God knows, that my heart should break, in its silence bitter and drear,

Than I'd pester a woman with whispers and vows that she doesn't care to hear!"

So I put away all my hopes of love, and settled gloomily down To the dreary study of the law, in my chambers up in town: I left the lover's tender rôle for the sterner Roman's part, And thought to live my passion down, and root it out of my heart.

But in vain, in vain; for while my eyes were bent on the musty page

My truant thoughts would wander away to the pleasant parsonage,

And in fancy I'd see her winsome face-too winsome and fair to tell

With the soft, shy look in her lustrous eyes that I knew too well, too well!

Yet I kept to my work with a dogged heart that naught could conquer or tame;

"Since love is denied me," I bitterly said, "I'll make myself

I was up with the first faint streak of dawn, with pallid and haggard looks,

And midnight found me with aching head still bending over my books.

And you know the end!-how a mist would clog my bloodshot waking eyes,

And circles quiver about the lights in dazzling rainbow dyes: Then a strange dim blur of letters and lines, and then—all

darkness there!

And a poor blind man upon his knees, in an agony of prayer.

O Jack, dear brother! 'twas hard-'twas hard! so young in sorrow and strife,

To be left a sightless burden, old man, for all my useless life! Never to see the sun or the flowers, nor the starry heavens above,

Nor look in the dear home-faces again, so full of pity and love!

I know that Katie wrote to you, lad; but she couldn't tell, dear heart,

Of her soothing words, and patient help, and tender sisterly

part;

Nor how the dear old mother would say, while her pitying tears would fall,

"Poor boy, his home must be always here: there's more than enough for all!"

But I must be a burden on them, I knew, as I bitterly felt at times,

And by and by I took again to weaving stories and rhymes; And Katie would write them out for me, and somehow they seemed to "take,"

For I did my poor best, Heaven knows, for hers and the mother's sake.

And quiet and peace at last came down, in gracious answer to prayer;

The chastening Hand that had dealt the blow help'd the mourner to bear;

And I came to think, with a heart resign'd, of even the brief love-dream

That had brighten'd and blighted my bygone life with its fickle and fleeting gleam.

I seldom saw her-Bessie, I mean-for the wound would rankle still,

But I'd hear of her almost every day from either Katie or

Will;

And when they talk'd of a legacy that had left her rich, you know,

My broken prayers went up to God for her happiness below.

But it chanced, as I sat and brooded alone, one summer's afternoon

By the pleasant warmth and the scent o' the flowers I knew it was "leafy June"

Kate came and coax'd me to také her arm, and walk out with her, to call

At the rectory-house, or our friends would think I'd quite forgotten them all.

And Bessie was there! I could not see her winsome, welcoming face,

But the very sense of her presence seem'd to glorify the place; And I trembled and flush'd in the foolish way that lovers understand,

At the gentle sound of her pitying voice, and the touch of her dainty hand!

We sat in the quaint oak parlour-ah, how well I knew it of old!

And the good old rector prosed away about his church and his fold,

The parish schools, and the state of the roads, and the probable price of hay,

Till Bessie at last jumped up from her chair, in her old

impulsive way.

L

"Come, who's for my summer-house?" she said; "for it is so hot in here!

What! none of you speak? Then Charlie here shall be my cavalier.

Mamma dear, where is that magazine? O, here it is, I see: I want to read him the poem, you know, that so delighted me!"

Then she took my arm and led me out, with a tender sisterly

care,

To the dear old garden, so dark to me, to her so blooming

and fair,

Till we came to the arbour, the scene of some of my happiest hours o' life,

Ere I'd put from my heart its crowning hope of calling her my wife.

'Twas Tennyson's last new poem she read, and it may have been very fine,

But somehow her sweet voice trembled so much, I could hardly follow a line;

And at last she gave it up with a sigh, and laid the book

away.

“I think it must be the heat," she said, "but I cannot read to-day!"

Then there came a pause-a dreamy pause-when in fancy I could see

The fair flush'd face of the gentle friend so full of pity for

me:

Then she laid her dainty hand on mine-her hand that trembled so!

And the tears were in her tender voice as she whispered soft and low: