I answered gaily, though my whole voice wept; ‘We’ll ring the joy-bells, not the funeral-bells, Because we have her back, dead or alive.’ She never answered that, but shook her head; Then low and calm, as one who, safe in heaven, Shall tell a story of his lower life, Unmoved by shame or anger,—so she spoke. She told me she had loved upon her knees, As others pray, more perfectly absorbed In the act and aspiration. She felt his, For just his uses, not her own at all, His stool, to sit on, or put up his foot, His cup, to fill with wine or vinegar, Whichever drink might please him at the chance, For that should please her always: let him write His name upon her ... it seemed natural; It was most precious, standing on his shelf, To wait until he chose to lift his hand. Well, well,—I saw her then, and must have seen How bright her life went, floating on her love, Like wicks the housewives send afloat on oil, Which feeds them to a flame that lasts the night. To do good seemed so much his business, That, having done it, she was fain to think, Must fill up his capacity for joy. At first she never mooted with herself If _he_ was happy, since he made her so, Or if _he_ loved her, being so much beloved: Who thinks of asking if the sun is light, Observing that it lightens? who’s so bold, To question God of His felicity? Still less. And thus she took for granted first, What first of all she should have put to proof, And sinned against him so, but only so. ‘What could you hope,’ she said, ‘of such as she? You take a kid you like, and turn it out In some fair garden; though the creature’s fond And gentle, it will leap upon the beds And break your tulips, bite your tender trees: The wonder would be if such innocence Spoiled less. A garden is no place for kids.’