(He named the day); get you a seaman's glass,

Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears."

But when the last of those last moments

came,

"Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, Look to the babes, and till I come again, Keepeverything shipshape, for I must go. And fear no more for me; or if you fear Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.

Is He not yonder in those uttermost Parts of the morning? if I flee to these Can I go from Him? and the sea is His, The sea is His: He made it."

Enoch rose, Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife,

And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; But for the third, the sickly one, who slept

After a night of feverous wakefulness, When Annie would have raised him Enoch said

"Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child

Remember this?" and kiss'd him in his cot.

But Annie from her baby's forehead clipt A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught

His bundle, waved his hand, and went

his way.

She when the day, that Enoch men

tion'd, came, Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhaps She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous;

By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, Nor asking overmuch and taking less, And still foreboding "what would Enoch say?"

For more than once, in days of difficulty And pressure, had she sold her wares for

less

Than what she gave in buying what she sold:

She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus,

Expectant of that news which never came, Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, And lived a life of silent melancholy.

Now the third child was sickly-born and grew .

Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it With all a mother's care: nevertheless, Whether her business often call'd her from it,

Or thro' the want of what it needed most Or means to pay the voice who best could tell

What most it needed - howsoe'er it was, After a lingering, -ere she was aware, Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, The little innocent soul flitted away.

In that same week when Annie buried it,

Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace

(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her),

Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 'Surely' " said Philip "I may see her

now,

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school,

And bought them needful books, and

everyway,

Like one who does his duty by his own, Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake,

Fearing the lazy gossip of the port,
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish,
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and
fruit,

The late and early roses from his wall, Or conies from the down, and now and then,

With some pretext of fineness in the meal To save the offence of charitable, flour From his tall mill that whistled on the waste.

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind:

Scarce could the woman when he came upon her,

Out of full heart and boundless gratitude Light on a broken word to thank him with.

But Philip was her children's all-in-all ; From distant corners of the street they ran To greet his hearty welcome heartily; Lords of his house and of his mill were they; Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him

And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd

As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them
Uncertain as a vision or a dream,
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn
Down at the far end of an avenue,
Going we know not where and so ten

to go, He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish,

For was not Annie with them? and they went.

But after scaling half the weary down, Just where the prone edge of the wood began

plunge

To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke

The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away Their tawny clusters, crying to each other And calling, here and there, about the wood.

But Philip sitting at her side forgot Her presence, and remember'd one dark

hour

Here in this wood, when like a wounded life

He crept into the shadow: at last he said

I grieve to see you poor and wanting help :
I cannot help you as I wish to do
Unless they say that women are so
quick

Perhaps you know what I would have you know

I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove A father to your children: I do think They love me as a father: I am sure That I love them as if they were mine own; And I believe, if you were fast my wife, That after all these sad uncertain years, We might be still as happy as God grants To any of His creatures. Think upon it: For I am well-to-do- no kin, no care, No burden, save my care for you and

yours:

And we have known each other all our lives,

And I have loved you longer than you know."

Then answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke :

"You have been as God's good angel in our house.

God bless you for it, God reward you for it,