Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/148

Rh

Now blessings rest upon thee, my sweet child! There's not a bead upon my rosary That shall not count a prayer for thy dear sake.

What, Bertha, is it you? I little thought The shrouding mantle, and the hurried step, Which raised my wonder at this midnight hour, So cold, so damp, were those of mine own love;