And backward in the tent an aged crone Upbraided her full harshly more and more, But sunk her chiding to an undertone When she beheld him standing at the door, And calmed her voice, and dropped her lifted hand, And answered him with accent soft and bland. No, the young child was none of hers, she said, But she had found her where the ash lay white About a smouldering tent; her infant head All shelterless, she through the dewy night Had slumbered on the field,--ungentle fate For a lone child so soft and delicate. "And I," quoth she, "have tended her with care, And thought to be rewarded of her kin, For by her rich attire and features fair I know her birth is gentle: yet within The tent unclaimed she doth but pine and weep, A burden I would fain no longer keep." Still while she spoke the little creature wept, Till painful pity touched him for the flow Of all those tears, and to his heart there crept A yearning as of fatherhood, and lo! Reaching his arms to her, "My sweet," quoth he, "Dear little madam, wilt thou come with me?" Then she left off her crying, and a look Of wistful wonder stole into her eyes. The sullen frown her dimpled face forsook, She let him take her, and forgot her sighs, Contented in his alien arms to rest, And lay her baby head upon his breast. Ah, sure a stranger trust was never sought By any soldier on a battle-plain. He brought her to his tent, and soothed his voice, Rough with command; and asked, but all in vain, Her story, while her prattling tongue rang sweet, She playing, as one at home, about his feet. Of race, of country, or of parentage, Her lisping accents nothing could unfold;-- No questioning could win to read the page Of her short life;--she left her tale untold, And home and kin thus early to forget, She only knew,--her name was--Margaret. Then in the dusk upon his arm it chanced That night that suddenly she fell asleep; And he looked down on her like one entranced, And listened to her breathing still and deep, As if a little child, when daylight closed, With half-shut lids had ne'er before reposed. Softly he laid her down from off his arm, With earnest care and new-born tenderness: Her infancy, a wonder-working charm, Laid hold upon his love; he stayed to bless The small sweet head, then went he forth that night And sought a nurse to tend this new delight. And day by day his heart she wrought upon, And won her way into its inmost fold-- A heart which, but for lack of that whereon To fix itself, would never have been cold; And, opening wide, now let her come to dwell Within its strong unguarded citadel. She, like a dream, unlocked the hidden springs Of his past thoughts, and set their current free To talk with him of half-forgotten things-- The pureness and the peace of infancy, "Thou also, thou," to sigh, "wert undefiled (O God, the change!) once, as this little child."