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Rh ‘Then Lady Waldemar spoke!’ ‘Did she speak,’ Mused Marian softly, ‘or did she only sign? Or did she put a word into her face And look, and so impress you with the word? Or leave it in the foldings of her gown, Like rosemary smells, a movement will shake out When no one’s conscious? who shall say, or guess? One thing alone was certain—from the day The gracious lady paid a visit first, She, Marian, saw things different,—felt distrust Of all that sheltering roof of circumstance Her hopes were building into with clay nests: Her heart was restless, pacing up and down And fluttering, like dumb creatures before storms, Not knowing wherefore she was ill at ease.’

‘And still the lady came,’ said Marian Erle, ‘Much oftener than he knew it, Mister Leigh. She bade me never tell him she had come, She liked to love me better than he knew, So very kind was Lady Waldemar: And every time she brought with her more light, And every light made sorrow clearer. . Well, Ah, well! we cannot give her blame for that; ’Twould be the same thing if an angel came, Whose right should prove our wrong. And every time The lady came, she looked more beautiful And spoke more like a flute among green trees, Until at last, as one, whose heart being sad