‘And still the lady came,’ said Marian Erle, ‘Much oftener than _he_ knew it, Mister Leigh. She bade me never tell him that she had come, She liked to love me better than he knew, So very kind was Lady Waldemar: And every time she brought with her more light, And every light made sorrow clearer ... Well, Ah, well! we cannot give her blame for that; ’Twould be the same thing if an angel came, Whose right should prove our wrong. And every time The lady came, she looked more beautiful, And spoke more like a flute among green trees, Until at last, as one, whose heart being sad On hearing lovely music, suddenly Dissolves in weeping, I brake out in tears Before her ... asked her counsel ... ‘had I erred In being too happy? would she set me straight? For she, being wise and good and born above The flats I had never climbed from, could perceive If such as I, might grow upon the hills; And whether such poor herb sufficed to grow, For Romney Leigh to break his fast upon ’t,— Or would he pine on such, or haply starve?’ She wrapt me in her generous arms at once, And let me dream a moment how it feels To have a real mother, like some girls: But when I looked, her face was younger ... ay, Youth’s too bright not to be a little hard, And beauty keeps itself still uppermost, That’s true!—Though Lady Waldemar was kind, She hurt me, hurt, as if the morning-sun Should smite us on the eyelids when we sleep, And wake us up with headache. Ay, and soon Was light enough to make my heart ache too: She told me truths I asked for ... ’twas my fault ... ‘That Romney could not love me, if he would, As men call loving; there are bloods that flow Together, like some rivers, and not mix, Through contraries of nature. He indeed Was set to wed me, to espouse my class, Act out a rash opinion,—and, once wed, So just a man and gentle, could not choose But make my life as smooth as marriage-ring, Bespeak me mildly, keep me a cheerful house, With servants, broaches, all the flowers I liked, And pretty dresses, silk the whole year round’ ... At which I stopped her,—‘This for me. And now ‘For _him_.’—She murmured,—truth grew difficult; She owned, ‘’Twas plain a man like Romney Leigh Required a wife more level to himself. If day by day he had to bend his height To pick up sympathies, opinions, thoughts, And interchange the common talk of life Which helps a man to live as well as talk, His days were heavily taxed. Who buys a staff To fit the hand, that reaches but the knee? He’d feel it bitter to be forced to miss The perfect joy of married suited pairs, Who, bursting through the separating hedge Of personal dues with that sweet eglantine Of equal love, keep saying, ‘So _we_ think, It strikes _us_,—that’s _our_ fancy.’‘—When I asked