The long weeks passed on without consequence. As easy find a footstep on the sand The morning after spring-tide, as the trace Of Marian’s feet between the incessant surfs Of this live flood. She may have moved this way,— But so the star-fish does, and crosses out The dent of her small shoe. The foiled police Renounced me; ‘Could they find a girl and child, No other signalment but girl and child? No data shown, but noticeable eyes And hair in masses, low upon the brow, As if it were an iron crown and pressed? Friends heighten, and suppose they specify: Why, girls with hair and eyes, are everywhere In Paris; they had turned me up in vain No Marian Erle indeed, but certainly Mathildes, Justines, Victoires, ... or, if I sought The English, Betsies, Saras, by the score. They might as well go out into the fields To find a speckled bean, that’s somehow specked, And somewhere in the pod.’—They left me so. Shall _I_ leave Marian? have I dreamed a dream? —I thank God I have found her! I must say ‘Thank God,’ for finding her, although ’tis true I find the world more sad and wicked for’t. But she— I’ll write about her, presently; My hand’s a-tremble as I had just caught up My heart to write with, in the place of it. At least you’d take these letters to be writ At sea, in storm!—wait now.... A simple chance Did all. I could not sleep last night, and, tired Of turning on my pillow and harder thoughts, Went out at early morning, when the air Is delicate with some last starry touch, To wander through the Market-place of Flowers (The prettiest haunt in Paris), and make sure At worst, that there were roses in the world. So, wandering, musing, with the artist’s eye, That keeps the shade-side of the thing it loves, Half-absent, whole-observing, while the crowd Of young vivacious and black-braided heads Dipped, quick as finches in a blossomed tree, Among the nosegays, cheapening this and that In such a cheerful twitter of rapid speech,— My heart leapt in me, startled by a voice That slowly, faintly, with long breaths that marked The interval between the wish and word, Inquired in stranger’s French, ‘Would _that_ be much, That branch of flowering mountain-gorse?’—‘So much? Too much for me, then!’ turning the face round So close upon me, that I felt the sigh It turned with. ‘Marian, Marian!’—face to face— ‘Marian! I find you. Shall I let you go?’ I held her two slight wrists with both my hands; ‘Ah Marian, Marian, can I let you go?’ —She fluttered from me like a cyclamen, As white, which, taken in a sudden wind, Beats on against the palisade.—‘Let pass,’ She said at last. ‘I will not,’ I replied; ‘I lost my sister Marian many days,