‘You cannot’.... ‘That if Heaven itself should stoop, Remix the lots, and give me another chance, I’d say, ‘No other!’—I’d record my blank. Aurora never should be wife of mine.’ ‘Not see the stars?’ ‘’Tis worse still, not to see To find your hand, although we’re parting, dear. A moment let me hold it, ere we part; And understand my last words—these, at last! I would not have you thinking, when I’m gone, That Romney dared to hanker for your love, In thought or vision, if attainable, (Which certainly for me it never was) And wish to use it for a dog to-day, To help the blind man stumbling. God forbid! And now I know He held you in his palm, And kept you open-eyed to all my faults, To save you at last from such a dreary end. Believe me, dear, that if I had known, like Him, What loss was coming on me, I had done As well in this as He has.—Farewell, you, Who are still my light,—farewell! How late it is: I know that, now: you’ve been too patient, sweet. I will but blow my whistle toward the lane, And some one comes ... the same who brought me here. Get in—Good night.’ ‘A moment. Heavenly Christ! A moment. Speak once, Romney. ‘’Tis not true. I hold your hands, I look into your face— You see me?’ ‘No more than the blessed stars. Be blessed too, Aurora. Ah, my sweet, You tremble. Tender-hearted! Do you mind Of yore, dear, how you used to cheat old John, And let the mice out slily from his traps, Until he marvelled at the soul in mice Which took the cheese and left the snare? The same Dear soft heart always! ’Twas for this, I grieved Howe’s letter never reached you. Ah, you had heard Of illness,—not the issue ... not the extent: My life long sick with tossings up and down; The sudden revulsion in the blazing house,— The strain and struggle both of body and soul, Which left fire running in my veins, for blood: Scarce lacked that thunderbolt of the falling beam, Which nicked me on the forehead as I passed The gallery-door with a burden. Say heaven’s bolt, Not William Erie’s; not Marian’s father’s; tramp And poacher, whom I found for what he was, And, eager for her sake to rescue him, Forth swept from the open highway of the world, Road-dust and all,—till, like a woodland boar Most naturally unwilling to be tamed, He notched me with his tooth. But not a word To Marian! and I do not think, besides, He turned the tilting of the beam my way,— And if he laughed, as many swear, poor wretch, Nor he nor I supposed the hurt so deep. We’ll hope his next laugh may be merrier, In a better cause.’ ‘Blind, Romney?’ ‘Ah, my friend, You’ll learn to say it in a cheerful voice.