And then, somehow, though how he scarce could tell, He found that he was walking through the throng, Quite happy, with a young girl at his side-- A young girl apple-cheeked and eager-eyed; And her frank, friendly chatter seemed a song To him, who ne’er till now had heard life sing. And youth within him kindled quick and strong, As he drank in that careless chattering. And now she told to him how she had come From some far Northern Isle to earn her bread; And in a stuffy office all day long, In shiny ledgers, with a splitting head, She added dazzling figures till they danced, And tied themselves in wriggling knots, and pranced, And scrambled helter-skelter o’er the page: And, though it seemed already quite an age Since she had left her home, from end to end Of this big town she had not any friend: At times she almost dreaded she’d go dumb, With not a soul to speak to; for, at home In her own Island, she knew everyone... No strangers there! save when the tinkers came, With pots and pans aglinting in the sun-- You saw the tin far off, like glancing flame, As all about the Island they would roam.... Then, of themselves at home, there were six brothers, Five sisters, with herself, besides the others-- Two homeless babes, whom, having lost their mothers, Her mother’d taken in among her own... And she in all her life had hardly known Her mother with no baby at her breast... She’d always sing to hush them all to sleep; And sang, too, for the dancing, sang to keep The feet in time and tune; and still sang best, Clean best of all the singers of the Isle. And as she talked of home, he saw her smile, With happy, far-off gaze; and then as though In wonder how she’d come to chatter so To this pale, grave-eyed boy, she paused, half shy; And then she laughed, with laughter clear and true; And looked into his eyes; and he laughed too, And they were happy, hardly knowing why.