I stood upon the steps-- The last who left the door--and there I found The lady and her friend. The elder turned, And with a cordial greeting took my hand, And rallied me on my forgetfulness. Her eyes, her smile, her manner and her voice Touched the quick springs of memory, and I spoke Her name. She was my mother's early friend, Whose face I had not seen in all the years That had flown over us, since, from her door, I chased her lamb to where I found--myself. She spoke with tender words and swimming eyes Of her I mourned, and questioned me like one Who felt a mother's anxious interest In all my cares and plans. Why did I not In all my maunderings and wanderings Remember I had friends, and visit them-- Not missing her? Her niece was with her now; Would live with her, perhaps--("a lovely girl!"-- In whisper); and they both would so much like To see me at their house! (whisper again: "Poor child! I fear it is but dull for her, Here in the country.") Then with sudden thought-- "Kathrina!" With a blushing smile she turned (She had heard every word), and then her aunt-- Her voluble, dear aunt--presented me As an old friend--the son of an old friend-- Whose eyes had promised he would visit them, Although, in her monopoly of speech, She had quite shut him from the chance to say So much as that. I caught the period Quick as it dropped, and spoke the happiness I had in meeting them, and gave the pledge-- No costly thing to give--to end my walks On pleasant nightfalls at the little house Under the mountain. I had spoken more, But then the carriage, with its single horse, For which they waited, rattled to the steps, And we descended. To their lofty seats I helped the pair, and in my own I held For one sweet moment, hand of all the hands In the wide world I longed to clasp the most. A courteous "Good Evening, Sir," was all I won From its possessor; but her lively aunt With playful menace shook her fan at me, And said: "Remember, Paul!" and rode away. "A worldly woman, Sir!" growled a grum throat, I turned, and saw the sexton. Query: "which?" "I mean the aunt." ... "And what about the niece?" "Too fine for common people!" (with a shrug). "I think she is," I said, with quiet voice, And turned my feet toward home. A pious girl! And what could I be to a pious girl? What could she be to me? Weak questions, these: And vain perhaps; but such as young men ask On slighter spur than mine.