And sought her ever in my walks and prayers, And, now I find her ... do we throw away The bread we worked and prayed for,—crumble it And drop it, ... to do even so by thee Whom still I’ve hungered after more than bread, My sister Marian?—can I hurt thee, dear? Then why distrust me? Never tremble so. Come with me rather, where we’ll talk and live, And none shall vex us. I’ve a home for you And me and no one else’.... She shook her head. ‘A home for you and me and no one else Ill-suits one of us: I prefer to such, A roof of grass on which a flower might spring, Less costly to me than the cheapest here; And yet I could not, at this hour, afford A like home, even. That you offer yours, I thank you. You are good as heaven itself— As good as one I knew before.... Farewell.’ I loosed her hands.—‘In _his_ name, no farewell!’ (She stood as if I held her.) ‘For his sake, For his sake, Romney’s! by the good he meant, Ay, always! by the love he pressed for once,— And by the grief, reproach, abandonment, He took in change’.... ‘He, Romney! who grieved _him_? Who had the heart for’t? what reproach touched _him_? Be merciful,—speak quickly.’ ‘Therefore come,’ I answered with authority,—‘I think We dare to speak such things, and name such names, In the open squares of Paris!’ Not a word She said, but, in a gentle humbled way, (As one who had forgot herself in grief) Turned round and followed closely where I went, As if I led her by a narrow plank, Across devouring waters, step by step,— And so in silence we walked on a mile. And then she stopped: her face was white as wax. ‘We go much farther?’ ‘You are ill,’ I asked, ‘Or tired?’ She looked the whiter for her smile. ‘There’s one at home,’ she said, ‘has need of me By this time,—and I must not let him wait.’ ‘Not even,’ I asked, ‘to hear of Romney Leigh?’ ‘Not even,’ she said, ‘to hear of Mister Leigh.’ ‘In that case,’ I resumed, ‘I go with you, And we can talk the same thing there as here. None waits for me: I have my day to spend.’ Her lips moved in a spasm without a sound,— But then she spoke. ‘It shall be as you please; And better so—’tis shorter seen than told. And though you will not find me worth your pains, _That_ even, may be worth some pains to know, For one as good as you are.’ Then she led The way, and I, as by a narrow plank Across devouring waters, followed her, Stepping by her footsteps, breathing by her breath, And holding her with eyes that would not slip; And so, without a word, we walked a mile, And so, another mile, without a word.