I tried to think of something conciliatory to say, but nothing came to my lips, and I sat gazing helplessly at my husband's gloomy face. After a moment's silence, he took up his hat and moved towards the door. "Ronald," I cried, rising suddenly, "don't stay out as you did last night." "No," he answered, with formal politeness, "you need not be concerned. I shall come back at seven to dine." The door closed behind him, and again I was left alone with my misery. I was young, and there is a tendency in youth to believe that every grief will be eternal. In my turn I, too, began to pace up and down the room, with throbbing temples and an aching heart. And when at last tears came to my relief, I wept like a child, until I was exhausted and utterly worn-out. All at once I remembered that it was summer-time, and that other people were revelling in the sunshine, while I was sitting alone in this dim room—alone with my misery and bitter regret. The thought set my tears flowing afresh, and then I rose, scarcely knowing what I was doing, and began to arrange some books and papers which were scattered over a little table in a corner. When I moved my blotting-book, a paper fell from between its leaves, and fluttered down upon the floor. I picked it up, unfolded it, and read some verses which I had written a year ago. "The trees are in blossom at Richmond now, And the leaves are fresh and new; The bloom lies thick on the lilac bough, The clouds drift over the blue; And the earth is as fair as it used to be In times that have passed away; When we shared its bliss with the bird and bee, And laughed in the light of May. "The trees are in blossom at Richmond now, And the river shines like gold; But the sweets are gone from the lilac bough, And the skies are grey and cold; For I miss your step in the flowery grass, Your voice in the scented glade; And the birds sing on, and the sweet hours pass, Like dreams in the light and shade. "The trees are in blossom at Richmond now, But the flowers of love are dead; And under the bloom of the lilac bough I stand with a drooping head; If I heard your voice by my side to-day, I never could trust its tone; And here, in the light of the sweet young May, I live in the past alone." When I wrote these lines, how little I knew that they would be prophetic! But there is, I fancy, an undertone of prophecy in every poet-nature; and even while Ronald and I were rejoicing together under the lilac blossoms, I had vague dreams of faded blooms and clouded skies. Now that I read the little poem again, by the light of my new experience, I remembered that past foreshadowing, and put the paper away with a deep sigh of pain.