Young Lion Occleve entered at her side, A well-built, clever man, unduly grave, One whose repute already travelled wide For skill in breeding beasts. His features gave Promise of brilliant mind, far-seeing, brave, One who would travel far. His manly grace Grew wistful when his eyes were turned on Mary’s face. "Tell me," said Mary, "what did doctor say? How ill is he? What chance of life has he? The cowman said he couldn’t last the day, And only yesterday he joked with me." "We must be meek," the nurse said; "such things be." "There’s little hope," said Keir; "he’s dying, sinking." "Dying without his son," the young girl’s heart was thinking. "Does Michael know?" she asked. "Has he been called?" A slow confusion reddened on the faces, As when one light neglect leaves friends appalled. "No time to think," said nurse, "in such like cases." Old Occleve stooped and fumbled with his laces. "Let be," he said; "there’s always time for sorrow. He could not come in time; he shall be called to-morrow." "There is a chance," she cried, "there always is. Poor Mr. Gray might rally, might live on. Oh, I must telegraph to tell him this. Would it were day still and the message gone." She rose, her breath came fast, her grey eyes shone. She said, "Come, Lion; see me through the wood. Michael must know." Keir sighed. "Girl, it will do no good. "Our friend is on the brink and almost passed." "All the more need," she said, "for word to go; Michael could well arrive before the last. He’d see his father’s face at least. I know The office may be closed; but even so, Father, I must. Come, Lion." Out they went, Into the roaring woodland where the saplings bent. Like breakers of the sea the leafless branches Swished, bowing down, rolling like water, roaring Like the sea’s welcome when the clipper launches And full affronted tideways call to warring. Daffodils glimmered underfoot, the flooring Of the earthy woodland smelt like torn-up moss; Stones in the path showed white, and rabbits ran across. They climbed the rise and struck into the ride, Talking of death, while Lion, sick at heart, Thought of the woman walking at his side, And as he talked his spirit stood apart, Old passion for her made his being smart, Rankling within. Her thought for Michael ran Like glory and like poison through his inner man. "This will break Michael’s heart," he said at length. "Poor Michael," she replied; "they wasted hours. He loved his father so. God give him strength. This is a cruel thing this life of ours." The windy woodland glimmered with shut flowers, White wood anemones that the wind blew down. The valley opened wide beyond the starry town. "Ten," clanged out of the belfry. Lion stayed One hand upon a many-carven bole. "Mary," he said. "Dear, my beloved maid, I love you, dear one, from my very soul." Her beauty in the dusk destroyed control. "Mary, my dear, I’ve loved you all these years." "Oh, Lion, no," she murmured, choking back her tears.