So then he kissed her, as men kiss their own, And, proudly parting her unbraided hair, He said: "I did not think to see thee grown So fair a woman,"--but a touch of care The deep-toned voice through its caressing kept, And, hearing it, she turned away and wept. Wept,--for an impress on the face she viewed-- The stamp of feelings she remembered not; His voice was calmer now, but more subdued, Not like the voice long loved and unforgot! She felt strange sorrow and delightful pain-- Grief for the change, joy that he came again. O pleasant days, that followed his return, That made his captive years pass out of mind; If life had yet new pains for him to learn, Not in the maid's clear eyes he saw it shrined; And three full weeks he stayed with her, content To find her beautiful and innocent. It was all one in his contented sight As though she were a child, till suddenly, Waked of the chimes in the dead time of the night, He fell to thinking how the urgency Of Fate had dealt with him, and could but sigh For those best things wherein she passed him by. Down the long river of life how, cast adrift, She urged him on, still on, to sink or swim; And all at once, as if a veil did lift, In the dead time of the night, and bare to him The want in his deep soul, he looked, was dumb, And knew himself, and knew his time was come. In the dead time of the night his soul did sound The dark sea of a trouble unforeseen, For that one sweet that to his life was bound Had turned into a want--a misery keen: Was born, was grown, and wounded sorely cried All 'twixt the midnight and the morning tide. He was a brave man, and he took this thing And cast it from him with a man's strong hand; And that next morn, with no sweet altering Of mien, beside the maid he took his stand, And copied his past self till ebbing day Paled its deep western blush, and died away. And then he told her that he must depart Upon the morrow, with the earliest light; And it displeased and pained her at the heart, And she went out to hide her from his sight Aneath the cedar trees, where dusk was deep, And be apart from him awhile to weep And to lament, till, suddenly aware Of steps, she started up as fain to flee, And met him in the moonlight pacing there, Who questioned with her why her tears might be, Till she did answer him, all red for shame, "Kind sir, I weep--the wanting of a name." "A name!" quoth he, and sighed. "I never knew Thy father's name; but many a stalwart youth Would give thee his, dear child, and his love too, And count himself a happy man forsooth. Is there none here who thy kind thought hath won?" But she did falter, and made answer, "None." Then, as in father-like and kindly mood, He said, "Dear daughter, it would please me well To see thee wed; for know it is not good That a fair woman thus alone should dwell." She said, "I am content it should be so, If when you journey I may with you go."