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126 But tramp and tramp. And yet she knitted hose Not ill, and was not dull at needlework; And all the country people gave her pence For darning stockings past their natural age, And patching petticoats from old to new, And other light work done for thrifty wives.

One day, said Marian—the sun shone that day— Her mother had been badly beat, and felt The bruises sore about her wretched soul (That must have been): she came in suddenly, And snatching, in a sort of breathless rage, Her daughter’s headgear comb, let down the hair Upon her, like a sudden waterfall, And drew her drenched and passive, by the arm, Outside the hut they lived in. When the child Could clear her blinded face from all that stream Of tresses. . there, a man stood, with beasts’ eyes That seemed as they would swallow her alive, Complete in body and spirit, hair and all,— With burning stertorous breath that hurt her cheek, He breathed so near. The mother held her tight, Saying hard between her teeth—‘Why wench, why wench, The squire speaks to you now—the squire’s too good; He means to set you up and comfort us. Be mannerly at least.’ The child turned round And looked up piteous in the mother’s face (Be sure that mother’s death-bed will not want Another devil to damn, than such a look). . ‘Oh, mother!’ then, with desperate glance to heaven,