Ev’n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 245 She watch’d it, and departed weeping for him; Then, tho’ she mourned his absence as his grave, Set her sad will no less to chime with his, But throve not in her trade, not being bred To barter, nor compensating the want 250 By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, Nor asking overmuch and taking less, And still foreboding ‘what would Enoch say?’ For more than once, in days of difficulty And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 255 Than what she gave in buying what she sold: She failed and sadden’d knowing it; and thus, Expectant of that news which never came, Gain’d for her own a scanty sustenance, And lived a life of silent melancholy. 260 Now the third child was sickly-born and grew Yet sicklier, tho’ the mother cared for it With all a mother’s care: nevertheless, Whether her business often called her from it, Or thro’ the want of what it needed most, 265 Or means to pay the voice who best could tell What most it needed—howsoe’er it was, After a lingering,—ere she was aware,— Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, The little innocent soul flitted away. 270 In that same week when Annie buried it, Philip’s true heart, which hunger’d for her peace (Since Enoch left he had not look’d upon her), Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. ‘Surely’ said Philip ‘I may see her now, 275 May be some little comfort;’ therefore went, Past thro’ the solitary room in front, Paused for a moment at an inner door, Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, Enter’d; but Annie, seated with her grief, 280 Fresh from the burial of her little one, Cared not to look on any human face, But turn’d her own toward the wall and wept. Then Philip standing up said falteringly ‘Annie, I come to ask a favour of you.’ 285