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I could wish ’twere a loftier motive, dear, some impulse of duty or right, But no,—’twas only that what you had loved thenceforth was inviolate quite, And so I have only gone away. Seek not, for you never will find,— Spend rather each precious moment in doing the work we outlined For your brush if our Heavenly Father should call you back into the field,— Strive on, and this present personal need, this ache in your heart, shall be healed,— For me,—I shall think of you there in my home, I shall know that you dream of me still, And shall read in each finished picture a starry sweet thought of SAVILLE!”

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