‘You found him, Marian?’ ‘Ay, I found him where I found my curse,—in the gutter, with my shame! What have you, any of you, to say to that, Who all are happy, and sit safe and high, And never spoke before to arraign my right To grief itself? What, what, ... being beaten down By hoofs of maddened oxen into a ditch, Half-dead, whole mangled ... when a girl, at last, Breathes, sees ... and finds there, bedded in her flesh, Because of the overcoming shock perhaps, Some coin of price!... and when a good man comes (That’s God! the best men are not quite as good) And says, ‘I dropped the coin there: take it, you, And keep it,—it shall pay you for the loss,’— You all put up your finger—‘See the thief! Observe that precious thing she has come to filch! How bad those girls are!’ Oh, my flower, my pet, I dare forget I have you in my arms, And fly off to be angry with the world, And fright you, hurt you with my tempers, till You double up your lip? Ah, that indeed Is bad: a naughty mother!’ ‘You mistake,’ I interrupted; ‘if I loved you not, I should not, Marian, certainly be here.’ ‘Alas,’ she said, ‘you are so very good; And yet I wish, indeed, you had never come To make me sob until I vex the child. It is not wholesome for these pleasure-plats To be so early watered by our brine. And then, who knows? he may not like me now As well, perhaps, as ere he saw me fret,— One’s ugly fretting! he has eyes the same As angels, but he cannot see as deep, And so I’ve kept for ever in his sight A sort of smile to please him,—as you place A green thing from the garden in a cup, To make believe it grows there. Look, my sweet, My cowslip-ball! we’ve done with that cross face, And here’s the face come back you used to like. Ah, ah! he laughs! he likes me. Ah, Miss Leigh, You’re great and pure; but were you purer still,— As if you had walked, we’ll say, no otherwhere Than up and down the new Jerusalem, And held your trailing lutestring up yourself From brushing the twelve stones, for fear of some Small speck as little as a needle-prick, White stitched on white,—the child would keep to _me_, Would choose his poor lost Marian, like me best, And, though you stretched your arms, cry back and cling, As we do, when God says it’s time to die And bids us go up higher. Leave us, then; We two are happy. Does _he_ push me off? He’s satisfied with me, as I with him.’