“But father,” said I, “he, the priest, your friend,— At least, it seem’d—so thought.” “The priest!” he cried, “Has he been meddling with your malady?— My friend?—My friend is he no more.” “Nay, I,” I said, “had sought his counsel; even then He said but little.” “Little!” he rejoin’d; “That little was too much! Nay, never more— Yet hold.”—And here he paused.—“The priest has power— Yes, now I think of it, it need not all Be darkness; no.—The priest—one clew there is May clear this labyrinth.—The priest, he may,— He shall an absolution get; yes, yes, An absolution, that shall make us right.” And then my father, in his hopeful way, Recover’d somewhat. And he fondled me. “I see, my child, you love this Haydn, yes. Why, here you stand a woman when I thought You only were my pet, my little girl.— But do not cry: no, no; I honor you, My little woman!—There, forgive me now; Forgive my words. And when it comes, my child, The absolution, then, we then shall see, If your old father can be kind or not.” With this he kiss’d me. And at that, I wept; Nor could I tell him that his hopes were vain. I scarce could think myself that they were vain. XXXVII. From this time onward no one check’d me more, Attending Haydn. All the household heard My sire “could trust his child to be discreet”; And e’en Doretta too had something learn’d That made her caution more than half relax. Then days and weeks and months pass’d quickly by In which, when Haydn’s prison’d love would start, E’en while I heard the trembling of its bars, My lips would check him, saying, gently, then, “But not now, Haydn; nay, but we will wait.” And thus a habit grew that our two lives Dwelt there like friends, made separate by war, Who out from hostile camps, wave now a hand, And now a kerchief, but who never speak. And yet I cannot say love never spoke.— We did not mean it; but I think that love May tell its tales, unconscious of the fact, For who is conscious when God touches him?— But littlest acts there were; yet spirits read From signs too fine for measurements of space; Love heeds no measurements. But hints there were; And yet what words of love yield more than these? They hit the sense of love, but fail of sense Where nothing loving waits to take the hint. This learn’d our souls at last; I wot not how. And kitten-like, at play beside the hearth, We told our secrets, and none knew of them. XXXVIII.