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At length she rose; and, taking tenderly My hand in hers, said, "Shall we part, my child?" My tears were readier than my words as we sat Together in the dim and holy eve, And then my mother told me that her heart Had long been opened to the truths divine The German Luther taught; and by that faith Had my departed father died in hope. The tie was broken now that bound to France, And she desired to see her native land, Own the true creed, and die. "My Agatha," She said, in her own sweet peculiar tone, "Read you the pages which I offer now, And then decide." I kissed the silver clasp Of the small Bible:—Bertha, from that hour It has to me been as a bosom friend! We sought this castle; and our pilgrimage Brought its own blessing. Years have passed away In our most dear home circle; and we trace, Each day succeeding, an accustomed round Of duties, pleasures, charities, and cares, Which make their own delight. My mother's age, How beautiful it is!—such deep repose!— Solemn as if the shadow of the grave Were resting on it; yet rejoiced to stay, For my sake and for yours—her orphan charge! Though faint the pilgrim, yet the heart is strong. Bertha, my soul, the contrite and subdued,