He, gentle soul, grown garrulous with years, Prosed of her virtues to all listeners, And of their son's, the child of his old age, A prodigy of beauty and ways sage. It was a vow, he said, once made in Rome, Had brought them this chief treasure of their home. A vow! The light world laughed--for miracles Are not believed in now, except as hell's. And yet the ways of God are passing strange. And this is certain (and therein the range Of my long tale is reached, and I am free), --There is at Ostia, close beside the sea, A convent church, the same where years ago Griselda kneeled in tears and made her vow; And in that shrine, beneath the crucifix, They show a votive offering, candlesticks Of more than common workmanship and size, And underneath inscribed the votary's Name in initials, and the date, all told, Hall-marked in England, and of massive gold. THE END. _Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. _Edinburgh and London_ Transcriber's Notes: Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. Simple typographical errors were corrected. Page 81: "spendthrifts" was printed as "spendthifts". End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Griselda, by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt