What wonder? She relentless still pursued Unmarked, and tracked him in his solitude. And not in vain, alas! The days went by and found him in the snare. But soon a letter full of tenderest care Came from his wife, the little daughter too In a large hand—the exercise was new— To her papa her love and kisses sent. Into his very heart and soul it went. Forth on the high and dusty road he sought Some issue for the vortex of his thought. Returned, packed up his things, and ere the day Descended, was a hundred miles away. There are, I know of course, who lightly treat Such slips; we stumble, we regain our feet; What can we do? they say, but hasten on And disregard it as a thing that’s gone. Many there are who in a case like this Would calm re-seek their sweet domestic bliss; Accept unshamed the wifely tender kiss, And lift their little children on their knees, And take their kisses too; with hearts at ease Will read the household prayers,—to church will go, And sacrament,—nor care if people know. Such men—so minded—do exist, God knows, And, God be thanked, this was not one of those. Late in the night, at a provincial town In France, a passing traveller was put down; Haggard he looked, his hair was turning grey, His hair, his clothes, were much in disarray: In a bedchamber here one day he stayed, Wrote letters, posted them, his reckoning paid And went. ’Twas Edward rushing from his fall Here to his wife he wrote and told her all. Forgiveness—yes, perhaps she might forgive— For her, and for the children, he must live At any rate; but their old home to share As yet was something that he could not bear. She with her mother still her home should make, A lodging near the office he should take; And once a quarter he would bring his pay, And he would see her on the quarter-day, But her alone; e’en this would dreadful be, The children ’twas not possible to see. Back to the office at this early day To see him come, old-looking thus and grey, His comrades wondered, wondered too to see How dire a passion for his work had he, How in a garret too he lived alone; So cold a husband, cold a father grown. In a green lane beside her mother’s home, Where in old days they had been used to roam, His wife had met him on the appointed day, Fell on his neck, said all that love could say, And wept; he put the loving arms away. At dusk they met, for so was his desire; She felt his cheeks and forehead all on fire; The kisses which she gave he could not brook; Once in her face he gave a sidelong look, Said, but for them he wished that he were dead, And put the money in her hand and fled. Sometimes in easy and familiar tone, Of sins resembling more or less his own He heard his comrades in the office speak, And felt the colour tingling in his cheek; Lightly they spoke as of a thing of nought; He of their judgment ne’er so much as thought.