She turned the brilliant l.u.s.ter of her eyes Upon me. She had pa.s.sed beyond surprise, Or any strong emotion linked with clay.

But as I glided to her where she lay, A smile, celestial in its sweetness, wreathed Her pallid features. "Welcome home!" she breathed, "Dear hands! dear lips! I touch you and rejoice."

And like the dying echo of a voice Were her faint tones that thrilled upon my ear.

I fell upon my knees beside her bed; All agonies within my heart were wed, While to the aching numbness of my grief, Mine eyes refused the solace of a tear,-- The tortured soul's most merciful relief.

Her wasted hand caressed my bended head For one sad, sacred moment. Then she said, In that low tone so like the wind's refrain, "Maurine, my own! give not away to pain; The time is precious. Ere another dawn My soul may hear the summons and pa.s.s on.

Arise, sweet sister! rest a little while, And when refreshed, come hither. I grow weak With every hour that pa.s.ses. I must speak And make my dying wishes known to-night.

Go now." And in the halo of her smile, Which seemed to fill the room with golden light, I turned and left her.

Later in the gloom, Of coming night, I entered that dim room, And sat down by her. Vivian held her hand: And on the pillow at her side, there smiled The beauteous count'nance of a sleeping child.

"Maurine," spoke Helen, "for three blissful years, My heart has dwelt in an enchanted land; And I have drank the sweetened cup of joy, Without one drop of anguish or alloy.

And so, ere Pain embitters it with gall, Or sad-eyed Sorrow fills it full of tears, And bids me quaff, which is the Fate of all Who linger long upon this troubled way, G.o.d takes me to the realm of Endless Day, To mingle with his angels, who alone Can understand such bliss as I have known.

I do not murmur. G.o.d has heaped my measure, In three short years, full to the brim with pleasure; And, from the fullness of an earthly love, I pa.s.s to th' Immortal arms above, Before I even brush the skirts of Woe.

"I leave my aged parents here below, With none to comfort them. Maurine, sweet friend!

Be kind to them, and love them to the end, Which may not be far distant.

And I leave A soul immortal in your charge, Maurine.

From this most holy, sad and sacred eve, Till G.o.d shall claim her, she is yours to keep, To love and shelter, to protect and guide."

She touched the slumb'ring cherub at her side, And Vivian gently bore her, still asleep, And laid the precious burden on my breast.

A solemn silence fell upon the scene.

And when the sleeping infant smiled, and pressed My yielding bosom with her waxen cheek, I felt it would be sacrilege to speak, Such wordless joy possessed me.

Oh! at last This infant, who, in that tear-blotted past, Had caused my soul such travail, was my own: Through all the lonely coming years to be Mine own to cherish--wholly mine alone.

And what I mourned, so hopelessly as lost Was now restored, and given back to me.

The dying voice continued: "In this child You yet have me, whose mortal life she cost.

But all that was most pure and undefiled, And good within me, lives in her again.

Maurine, my husband loves me; yet I know, Moving about the wide world, to and fro, And through, and in the busy haunts of men, Not always will his heart be dumb with woe, But sometime waken to a later love.

Nay, Vivian, hush! my soul has pa.s.sed above All selfish feelings! I would have it so.

While I am with the angels, blest and glad, I would not have you sorrowing and sad, In loneliness go mourning to the end.

But, love! I could not trust to any other The sacred office of a foster-mother To this sweet cherub, save my own heart-friend.

"Teach her to love her father's name, Maurine, Where'er he wanders. Keep my memory green In her young heart, and lead her in her youth, To drink from th' eternal fount of Truth; Vex her not with sectarian discourse, Nor strive to teach her piety by force; Ply not her mind with harsh and narrow creeds, Nor frighten her with an avenging G.o.d, Who rules his subjects with a burning rod; But teach her that each mortal simply needs To grow in hate of hate and love of love, To gain a kingdom in the courts above.

"Let her be free and natural as the flowers, That smile and nod throughout the summer hours.

Let her rejoice in all the joys of youth, But first impress upon her mind this truth: No lasting happiness is e'er attained Save when the heart some _other_ seeks to please.

The cup of selfish pleasures soon is drained, And full of gall and bitterness the lees.

Next to her G.o.d, teach her to love her land; In her young bosom light the patriot's flame Until the heart within her shall expand With love and fervor at her country's name.

"No coward-mother bears a valiant son.

And this, my last wish, is an earnest one.

"Maurine, my o'er-taxed strength is waning; you Have heard my wishes, and you will be true In death as you have been in life, my own!

Now leave me for a little while alone With him--my husband. Dear love! I shall rest So sweetly with no care upon my breast.

Good night, Maurine, come to me in the morning."

But lo! the bridegroom with no further warning Came for her at the dawning of the day.

She heard his voice, and smiled, and pa.s.sed away Without a struggle.

Leaning o'er her bed To give her greeting, I found but her clay, And Vivian bowed beside it.

And I said, "Dear friend! my soul shall treasure thy request, And when the night of fever and unrest Melts in the morning of Eternity, Like a freed bird, then I will come to thee.

"I will come to thee in the morning, sweet!

I have been true; and soul with soul shall meet Before G.o.d's throne, and shall not be afraid.

Thou gav'st me trust, and it was not betrayed.

"I will come to thee in the morning, dear!

The night is dark. I do not know how near The morn may be of that Eternal Day; I can but keep my faithful watch and pray.

"I will come to thee in the morning, love!

Wait for me on the Eternal Heights above.

The way is troubled where my feet must climb, Ere I shall tread the mountain-top sublime.

"I will come in the morning, O, mine own!

But for a time must grope my way alone, Through tears and sorrow, till the Day shall dawn, And I shall hear the summons, and pa.s.s on.

"I will come in the morning. Rest secure!

My hope is certain and my faith is sure.

After the gloom and darkness of the night I will come to thee with the morning light."

Three peaceful years slipped silently away.

We dwelt together in my childhood's home, Aunt Ruth and I, and sunny-hearted May.

She was a fair and most exquisite child; Her pensive face was delicate and mild Like her dead mother's; but through her dear eyes Her father smiled upon me, day by day.

Afar in foreign countries did he roam, Now resting under Italy's blue skies, And now with Roy in Scotland.

And he sent Brief, friendly letters, telling where he went And what he saw, addressed to May or me.

And I would write and tell him how she grew-- And how she talked about him o'er the sea In her sweet baby fashion; how she knew His picture in the alb.u.m; how each day She knelt and prayed the blessed Lord would bring Her own papa back to his little May.

It was a warm bright morning in the Spring.

I sat in that same sunny portico, Where I was sitting seven years ago When Vivian came. My eyes were full of tears, As I looked back across the checkered years.

How many were the changes they had brought!

Pain, death, and sorrow! but the lesson taught To my young heart had been of untold worth.

I had learned how to "suffer and grow strong"-- That knowledge which best serves us here on earth, And brings reward in Heaven.

Oh! how long The years had been since that June morning when I heard his step upon the walk, and yet I seemed to hear its echo still.

Just then Down that same path I turned my eyes, tear-wet, And lo! the wanderer from a foreign land Stood there before me!--holding out his hand And smiling with those wond'rous eyes of old.

To hide my tears, I ran and brought his child; But she was shy, and clung to me, when told This was papa, for whom her prayers were said.

She dropped her eyes and shook her little head, And would not by his coaxing be beguiled, Or go to him.

Aunt Ruth was not at home, And we two sat and talked, as strangers might, Of distant countries which we both had seen.

But once I thought I saw his large eyes light With sudden pa.s.sion, when there came a pause In our chit-chat, and then he spoke: "Maurine, I saw a number of your friends in Rome.

We talked of you. They seemed surprised, because You were not 'mong the seekers for a name.

They thought your whole ambition was for fame."

"It might have been," I answered, "when my heart Had nothing else to fill it. Now my art Is but a recreation. I have _this_ To love and live for, which I had not then."

And, leaning down, I pressed a tender kiss Upon my child's fair brow.

"And yet," he said, The old light leaping to his eyes again, "And yet, Maurine, they say you might have wed A n.o.ble Baron! one of many men Who laid their hearts and fortunes at your feet.

Why won the bravest of them no return?"