‘And you,’ she said, ‘my husband will you see? ‘O no, it is not possible for me. The boy I’ll send this very afternoon. O dear, I know he cannot go too soon; And something I must write, to write will do.’ So they embraced and sadly bade adieu. The boy came in, his father went and saw! We will not wait this interview to draw; Ere long returned, and to his mother ran: His father was a wonderful fine man, He said, and looked at her; the Lady, too, Had done whatever it was kind to do. He loved his mother more than he could say, But if she wished, he’d with his father stay. A little change she noticed in his face, E’en now the father’s influence she could trace; From her the slight, slight severance had begun, But simply she rejoiced that it was done. She smiled and kissed her boy, and ‘Long ago, When I was young, I loved your father so. Together now we had been living, too, Only the ship went sooner than he knew. In loving him you will be loving me: Father and mother are as one you see.’ Her letter caught him on the following day As to the club he started on his way. From her he guessed, the hand indeed was new; Back to his room he went and read it through. ‘I know not how to write and dare not see; But it will take a load of grief from me— O! what a load—that you at last should know The way in which I was compelled to go. Wretched, I know, and yet it seems ’twas more Cruel and wretched than I knew before; So many years to think how on your day Joyful you’d come, and found me flown away. What would you think of me, what would you say? O love, this little let me call you so; What other name to use I do not know O let me think that by your side I sit, And tell it you, and weep a little bit, And you too weep with me, for hearing it. Alone so long I’ve borne this dreadful weight; Such grief, at times it almost turned to hate. O let me think you sit and listening long, Comfort me still, and say I wasn’t wrong, And pity me, and far, far hence again Dismiss, if haply any yet remain, Hard thoughts of me that in your heart have lain. O love! to hear your voice I dare not go; But let me trust that you will judge me so. ‘I think no sooner were you gone away, My aunt began to tell me of some pay, More than three hundred pounds a-year ’twould be, Which you, she said, would lose by marrying me. Was this a thing a man of sense would do? Was I a fool, to look for it from you? You were a handsome gentleman and kind, And to do right were every way inclined, But to this truth I must submit my mind, You would not marry. “Speak, and tell me true, Say, has he ever said one word to you That meant as much?” O, love, I knew you would. I’ve read it in your eyes so kind and good, Although you did not speak I understood. Though for myself, indeed, I sought it not, It seemed so high, so undeserved a lot,