How swiftly sped the hours in happy nights When, after work, he rested there at home! Such winning ways he had to lure my trust! Such sweet pet names would call me, till I felt So fondly small, he well might be my lord! Would tease me so, anon to comfort me! Or rouse my temper that he mild might seem; Or tell such tales, that in my dreams I laugh’d At wit reflecting, though distorting, his; Or better still, would play for me,—such strains! The very thought of them would seem like sleep, While half the night I linger’d still awake, Half-conscious of the call of early birds And sparkling spray of light dash’d o’er the dews. XXXIX. At last, one night, when no one else was by, Some new impatience moved him; and he spoke: “Pauline, my friend, allow me only once;— And say not, now, say not we still can wait: Have I not waited long? Pauline, my own, What forms the substance of this mystery Whose dark shade rests about you? Surely, friend, The slightest will on your part would have power To bid it off.” “Not so,” I answer’d him (I felt that I should tell him all at last); “Not if the shade that so you speak of fall From something you and I could not remove.” “That cannot be,” he cried. “How can it be? Of old your father would not brook our love; But lately much has done to forward it.” “And know you then,” I asked, “what wrought his change?” “His wiser judgment,” answer’d he; “not so?” “Are there not times in life,” I asked, “and paths Where conscientiousness and love may cross?”