Blue with a silver locket at the throat, And that she would be there, within there, near, With the little blushes that he knew by rote, And the grey eyes so steadfast and so dear, The voice, pure like the nature, true and clear, Speaking to her belov’d within the room. The gate clicked, Lion came: the outcast hugged the gloom, Watching intently from below the boughs, While Lion cleared his riding-boots of clay, Eyed the high clouds and went within the house. His eyes looked troubled, and his hair looked gray. Dinner began within with much to say. Old Occleve roared aloud at his own joke. Mary, it seemed, was gone; the loved voice never spoke. Nor could her lover see her from the yew; She was not there at table; she was ill, Ill, or away perhaps--he wished he knew. Away, perhaps, for Occleve bellowed still. "If sick," he thought, "the maid or Lion will Take food to her." He watched; the dinner ended. The staircase was not used; none climbed it, none descended. "Not here," he thought; but wishing to be sure, He waited till the Occleves went to field, Then followed, round the house, another lure, Using the well-known privet as his shield. He meant to run a risk; his heart was steeled. He knew of old which bedroom would be hers; He crouched upon the north front in among the firs. The house stared at him with its red-brick blank, Its vacant window-eyes; its open door, With old wrought bridle ring-hooks at each flank, Swayed on a creaking hinge as the wind bore. Nothing had changed; the house was as before, The dull red brick, the windows sealed or wide: "I will go in," he said. He rose and stepped inside. None could have seen him coming; all was still; He listened in the doorway for a sign. Above, a rafter creaked, a stir, a thrill Moved, till the frames clacked on the picture line. "Old Mother Occleve sleeps, the servants dine," He muttered, listening. "Hush." A silence brooded. Far off the kitchen dinner clattered; he intruded. Still, to his right, the best room door was locked. Another door was at his left; he stayed. Within, a stately timepiece ticked and tocked, To one who slumbered breathing deep; it made An image of Time’s going and man’s trade. He looked: Old Mother Occleve lay asleep, Hands crossed upon her knitting, rosy, breathing deep. He tiptoed up the stairs which creaked and cracked. The landing creaked; the shut doors, painted gray, Loomed, as if shutting in some dreadful act. The nodding frames seemed ready to betray. The east room had been closed in Michael’s day, Being the best; but now he guessed it hers; The fields of daffodils lay next it, past the firs. Just as he reached the landing, Lion cried, Somewhere below, "I’ll get it." Lion’s feet Struck on the flagstones with a hasty stride. "He’s coming up," thought Michael, "we shall meet." He snatched the nearest door for his retreat, Opened with thieves’ swift silence, dared not close, But stood within, behind it. Lion’s footsteps rose,