And vows, where there was never need of vows,

And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap

Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale

Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars;

Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, Spread the light haze along the rivershores,

And in the hollows; or as once we met Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind,

And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. But this whole hour your eyes have been intent

On 'that veil'd picture-veil'd, for what it holds

May not be dwelt on by the common day.

And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,

And never more darken my doors again.' But William answer'd madly; bit his lips,

And broke away. The more he look'd at her

The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;

But Dora bore them meekly. Then before

The month was out he left his father's house,

And hired himself to work within the fields;

And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed

A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd

His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well;

But if you speak with him that was my

son,

Or change a word with her he calls his wife,

My home is none of yours. My will is law.'

And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,

'It cannot be my uncle's mind will change!

And days went on, and there was born a boy

To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him

not.

But Dora stored what little she could save,

And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know

Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
On William, and in harvest time he died.
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and
thought

Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:

'I have obey'd my uncle until now,

And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,

And for your sake, the woman that he chose,

And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years

So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad

Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.'

And Dora took the child, and went her way

Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew.

Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his

men

And Allan said, 'I see it is a trick
Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by you!
You knew my word was law, and yet you
dared

To slight it. Well-for I will take the boy;

But go you hence, and never see me more.' So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud

And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell

At Dora's feet. She bowed 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 Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise

To God, that help'd her in her widow. hood.

And Dora said, ' My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more.' Then answer'd Mary, 'This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:

And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,

For he will teach him hardness, and to slight

His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home;

And I will beg of him to take thee back: But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house,

And work for William's child, until he grows 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 clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,

Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd out

And babbled for the golden seal, that hung

From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.

Then they came in: but when the boy beheld

His mother, he cried out to come to her: And Allan set him down, and Mary said: 'O Father!-if you let me call you

SO

I never came a-begging for myself,
Or William, or this child; but now I

come

For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.

O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said

He could not ever rue his marrying me 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

His face and pass'd- unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for

you

Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight

His father's memory; and take Dora back,

And let all this be as it was before.'

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs:

'I have been to blame- to blame. I have kill'd my son.