Their joy to see his face once more; While half in pleasure, half in pain, His bride stood waiting at her door The passage of the friendly train That slowly swept the crowded floor. Half-bows were tendered and returned; And welcomes fell from lips and eyes; But in her heart she meekly spurned The love that came in love's disguise Of sympathy--the love unearned. XV. Then out beneath the noon-day sun Of the old Temple, cool and dim, She walked beside her chosen one, And lost her loneliness in him; But hardly was her walk begun When, straight before her in the street, With tender shock her eye descried A little child, with naked feet And scanty dress, that, hollow-eyed, Looked up and begged for bread to eat. Nor pride of place nor dainty spleen Felt with her heart the sickening shock. She took the hand so soiled and lean; And silken robe and ragged frock Moved side by side across the green. She looked for love, and, low and wild, She found it--looking, too, for love! So in each other's eyes they smiled, As, dark brown hand in snowy glove, The bride led home the hungry child. And men and women in amaze Paused in their homeward steps to see The bride retreating from their gaze, Clasped hand in hand with misery; Then brushed their eyes, and went their ways. When the long parley found a close, And, clean and kempt, the little oaf-- Disburdened of her wants and woes, And burdened with her wheaten loaf-- Went forth to minister to those Who sent her on her bitter quest, The bride stood smiling at her door, And in her happiness confessed That she had found a friend; nay, more-- Had entertained a heavenly guest. And as she watched her down the street, With brow grown bright with sunny thought, And heart o'erfilled with something sweet, She knew the vagrant child had brought The blessing of the Paraclete. She turned from out the blazing noon, And sought her chamber's quiet shade, Like one who had received a boon She might not show, but which essayed Expression in a happy croon. And then, outleaping from the mesh Of Memory's net, like bird or bee, There thrilled her spirit and her flesh This old half-song, half-rhapsody, That sang, or said itself, afresh: "Poor little wafer of silver! More precious to me than its cost! It was worn of both image and legend, But priceless because it was lost. My chamber I carefully swept; I hunted, and wondered, and wept; And I found it at last with a cry: "Oh dear little jewel!" said I; And I washed it with tears all the day; Then I kissed it, and put it away.