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 set 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 us—a strong man:
  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 world—
  For pleasure?—nay, but for the wherewithal
  To give his babes a better bringing-up
  Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish.
  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, now—
  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—
  For, if you will, when Enoch comes again
  Why then he shall repay me—if you will,
  Annie—for I am rich and well-to-do.
  Now let me put the boy and girl to school:
  This is the favor that I came to ask.'

    Then Annie with her brows against the wall
  Answer'd 'I cannot look you in the face;
  I seem so foolish and so broken down.
  When you came in my sorrow broke me down;
  And now I think your kindness breaks me down;
  But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me:
  He will repay you: money can be repaid;
  Not kindness such as yours.'

                               And Philip ask'd
  'Then you will let me, Annie?'

                                There she turn'd,
  She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him,
  And dwelt a moment on his kindly face,
  Then calling down a blessing on his head
  Caught at his hand and wrung it passionately,
  And past into the little garth beyond.
  So lifted up in spirit he moved away.

    Then Philip put the boy and girl to school,
  And bought them needful books, and everyway,
  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;
  Lords of his house and of his mill were they;
  Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs
  Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him
  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 we 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 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 saying to him
  'Come with us Father Philip' he denied;
  But when the children pluck'd at him to go,
  He laugh'd, and yielding 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 cries
  Broke from their elders, and tumultuously
  Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge
  To the bottom, and dispersed, and beat 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 wood.'
  '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 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 known 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 know—
  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
  That I love them as if they were mine own;
  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