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10 Had left the hills, I've often wander'd forth, And, all impatient for the verdure, clear'd A patch of infant green; or even turn'd With mighty effort, some recumbent stone, To find the fresh grass under it.
 * Alice. This is childish.
 * Mary. I was a child, then,—would I were e'en now,

As then I was—my life, I fear will prove A wintry waste with no green spot to cheer it;
 * Alice. More visionary still.
 * Mary. Well, to my story:—

My father took me home, I think it was About the time you came into the village, Fell superstition now had spread around. Reports—I scarce know what they meant—arose Concerning Isabella; and my father Made gloomier by my mother's death, and yielding His strong mind to the doctrine of the times, Grew daily still more stern, until at length, At peril of his curse, he bade me never To hold communion with that family.
 * Alice. And you obeyed?
 * Mary. All that I could, I did.

But O the tales they tell—the horrid stones— Her very virtues they distort to crimes. And for poor Charles, his manliness and spirit, The gayety of youth and innocence. In him are vices. Could I help defending, Knowing them as I did:—all others hating. Could I help loving!— Alice. Loving, Mary? Mary. Ay; Most deeply, strongly loving Charles and his mother. Alice. But sure you have not seen this Charles? Mary. Not often.— Nay frown not friend, for how could I avoid it, When chance insisted on an interview ? Alice. Have ye met lately?