But after dinner they had a long talk together. John sent me to my room, and I was glad to go. I walked up and down, crying, I must say, most of the time, asking forgiveness of myself for my faults, and remembering Laura and Maurice,--and then thinking Redmond was mine, with a contraction of the heart which threatened to stifle me. John took us up to Leonora's that evening; he said he wanted to see if Puss would be tantalized with the sight of such a beautiful romantic couple just from fairy-land, who were now prepared "to live in peace." We were married the next day in a church in a by-street. John was the only witness, and flourished a large silk handkerchief, so that it had the effect of a triumphal banner. Redmond put the ring on the wrong finger,--a mistake which the minister kindly rectified. All I had new for the occasion was a pair of gloves. One morning after my marriage, when Redmond and John were smoking together, I was turning over some boxes, for I was packing to go home on a visit to our mother. I called Redmond to leave his pipe and come to me. "You have not seen any of my property. Look, here it is:-- "One bitten handkerchief. "A fan never used. "A gold pen-holder. "A draggled shawl." "Margaret," he said, taking my chin in his hand and bringing his eyes close to mine, "I am wild with happiness." "Your pipe has gone out," we heard John say. * * * * * THE PLAYMATE. The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow. The blossoms drifted at our feet, The orchard birds sang clear; The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year. For, more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring, The music and the bloom. She kissed the lips of kith and kin, She laid her hand in mine: What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father's kine? She left us in the bloom of May: The constant years told o'er Their seasons with as sweet May morns. But she came back no more. I walk, with noiseless feet, the round Of uneventful years; Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring And reap the autumn ears. She lives where all the golden year Her summer roses blow; The dusky children of the sun Before her come and go. There haply with her jewelled hands She smooths her silken gown,-- No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down. The wild grapes wait us by the brook, The brown nuts on the hill, And still the May-day flowers make sweet The woods of Follymill. The lilies blossom in the pond, The bird builds in the tree, The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill The slow song of the sea. I wonder if she thinks of them, And how the old time seems,-- If ever the pines of Ramoth wood Are sounding in her dreams.