At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, Of age to help us." So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch; they peep'd, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapp'd him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus. 'God bless him!' he said, ' and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'd But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you His father's memory; and take Dora back, So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; "I have been to blame-to blame. I have kill'd Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. And all the man was broken with remorse ; And all his love came back a hundredfold; my And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, son. So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death. AUDLEY COURT. "THE Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room For love or money. Let us picnic there At Audley Court." I spoke, while Audley feast Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay, To Francis, with a basket on his arm, To Francis just alighted from the boat, And breathing of the sea. "With all my heart," Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd through the swarm, And rounded by the stillness of the beach To where the bay runs up its latest horn. We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd The flat red granite; so by many a sweep |