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God bless him, he shall sit upon my | Heard and not heard him ; as the village knees
girl, And I will tell him tales of foreign Who sets her pitcher underneath the parts,
spring, And make him merry, when I come home Musing on him that used to fill it for again.
her, Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go." Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. Him running on thus hopefully she At length she spoke “O Enoch, you heard,
are wise ; And almost hoped herself ; but when he And yet for all your wisdom well know I turn'd
| That I shall look upon your face no more." The current of his talk to graver things In sailor fashion roughiy sermonizing “Well then," said Enoch, “I shall On providence and trust in Heaven, she look on yours. hoard,
| Annie, the ship I sail in passes here
(He named the day); get you a seaman's ; By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, glass,
Nor asking overmuch and taking less, Spy out my face, and laugh at all your And still foreboding "what would Enoch fears."
For more than once, in days of difficulty But when the last of those last moments And pressure, had she sold her wares for came,
less “Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, Than what she gave in buying what she Look to the babes, and till I come again,
sold : Keepeverything shipshape, for I must go. She fail'l and sadden'd knowing it; and And fear no more for me ; or if you fear thus, Cast all your cares on God; that anchor Expectant of that news which never came, holds.
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, Is He not yonder in those uttermost And lived a life of silent melancholy. Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these Can I go from Him? and the sea is His, Now the third child was sickly-born The sea is His : He made it."
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it
Enoch rose, / With all a mother's care : nevertheless, Cast his strong arms about his drooping Whether her business often call'd her wife,
from it, And kiss'd his wonder-stricken littleones; Or thro’the want of what it needed most. But for the third, the sickly one, who Or means to pay the voice who best could slept
tell After a night of feverous wakefulness, What most it needed - howsoe'er it was, When Annie would have raised him Enoch After a lingering, - ere she was aware,
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, “Wake him not ; let him sleep ; how The little innocent soul slitted away.
should the child Remember this?” and kiss'd him in his In that same week when Aunie bur. cot.
jed it, But Annie from her baby's forehead clipt Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept
her peace Thro' all his future; but now hastily (Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon caught
her), His bundle, waved his hand, and went Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. his way.
“Surely” said Philip “I may see her
May be some little comfort"; therefore She when the day, that Enoch men- i tion'd, came,
Past thro' the solitary room in front, Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : perhaps Paused for a moment at an imner door, She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; Then struck it thrice, and, nooneopening, Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremu- Enterol; but Annie, seated with her grief, lous ;
Fresh from the burial of her little one, She saw him not: and while he stood on Cared not to look on any human face, deck
But turn'd her own toward the wall and Waving, the moment and the vessel past. wept.
Then Philip standing up said falteringly Ev'n to the last dipofthe vanishing sail “Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him;
He spoke; the passion in her moan'd Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as reply his grave,
“Favor from one so sad and so forlorn Set her sad will no less to chime with his, Aslam!" half abashi'd him; yet unaski, But throve not in hertrade, not being bred Hlis bashfulness and tenderness at war, To barter, nor compensating the want He set himself beside her, saying to her:
“I came to speak to you of what he | Then Philip put the boy and girl to wish'd,
school, Enoch, your husband : I have ever said And bought them needful books, and You chose the best among us -- a strong everyway, man :
Like one who does his duty by his own, For where he fixt his heart he set his hand Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's To do the thing he will’d, and bore it thro'. sake, And wherefore did he go this weary way, Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, And leave you lonely? not to see the He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, world
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent For pleasure ? — nay, but for the where | Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and withal
fruit, To give his babes a better bringing-up The late and early roses from his wall, Than his had been or yours : that was Or conies from the down, and now and his wish.
then, And if he come again, vext will he be with some pretext of fineness in the meal To find the precious morning hours were To save the offence of charitable, flour lost.
From his tall mill that whistled on the And it would vex him even in his grave, waste. If he could know his babes were running wild
But Philip did not fathom Annie's Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now
Scarce could the woman when he came Have we not known each other all our upon her, lives?
| Out of full heart and boundless gratitude I do beseech you by the love you bear Light on a broken word to thank him Him and his children not to say me nay
with, For, if you will, when Enoch comes again But Philip was her children's all-in-all ; Why then he shall repay me-- if you will, From distant corners of the street they ran Annie - for I am rich and well-to-do. To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; Now let me put the boy and girl to school: Lords of his house and of his mill were they; This is the favor that I came to ask.” Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd Then Annie with her brows against the with hin wall
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip Answer'd “I cannot look you in the face; gain'd I seem so foolish and so broken down. As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them When you came in my sorrow broke me Uncertain as a vision or a dream, down;
|Faint as a figure seen in early dawn And now I think your kindness breaks Down at the far end of an avenue, me down ;
Going we know not where : and so ten But Enoch lives, that is borne in on me : years, He will repay you : money can be repaid ; Since Enoch left his hearth and native Not kindness such as yours.”
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came.
And Philip ask'd “Then you will let me, Annie?” | It chanced one evening Annie's chil.
dren long'd There she turn'a, To go with others, nutting to the wood, She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes And Annie would go with them ; then upon him,
they begg'd And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, For Father Philip(as they call'd him) too : Then calling down a blessing on his head Him, like the working bee in blossom. ('aught at his hand, and wrung it pas- . dust, sionately,
Blanch'd with his mill, they found ; and And past into the little garth beyond.
saying to him So lifted up in spirit he moved away. "Come with us Father Philip” he denied;
But when the children pluck'd at him | Broke from their elders, and tumultuously to go,
Down thro' the whitening hazels made a He laugh’d, and yielded readily to their plunge wish,
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent For was not Annie with them ? and they . or broke went.
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other But after scaling half the weary down, And calling, here and there, about the Just where the prone edge of the wood wood.
began To feather toward the hollow, all her force But Philip sitting at her side forgot Fail'd her; and sighing “let me rest” Her presence, and remember'd one dark she said :
hour So Philip rested with her well-content; Here in this wood, when like a wounded While all the younger ones with jubilant
| He crept into the shadow : at last he said
Lifting his honest forehead “Listen, | Philip, with something happier than my. Annie,
self. How merry they are down yonder in the Can once love twice? can you be ever loved
| As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?" Tired, Annie ?” for she did not speak “I am content” he answer'd “to be a word.
loved “ Tired ?" but her face had fall'n upon her A little after Enoch.” “O” she cried hands;
Scared as it were “dear Philip, wait a At which, as with a kind of anger in him, while : “The ship was lost " he said “the ship If Enoch comes - but Enoch will not was lost!
come No more of that! why should you kill Yet wait a year, a year is not so long : yourself
Surely I shall be wiser in a year : And make them orphans quite ?" And O wait a little !” Philip sadly said Annie said
“Annie, as I have waited all my life “I thought not of it: but — I know not I well may wait a little.” “Nay"shecried why —
“I am bound : you have my promise Their voices make me feel so solitary."
in a year :
Will you not bide your year as I bide Then Philip coming somewhat closer mine?" spoke.
And Philip answer'd “I will bide my “ Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, And it has been upon my mind so long, That tho' I know not when it first came Here both were mute, till Philip glanthere, .
cing up I know that it will out at last. O Annie, Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day It is beyond all hope, against all chance, Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ; That he who left you ten long years ago Then fearing night and chill for Annie Should still be living ; well then - let rose, me speak :
And sent his voice beneath him thro' Igrieve to see you poor and wanting help : the wood. I cannot help you as I wish to do Up came the children laden with their Unless — they say that women are so spoil ; quick
Then all descended to the port, and there Perhaps you know what I would have At Annie's door he paused and gave his you know
hand, I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove Saying gently “ Annie, when I spoke to A father to your children: I do think
you, They love me as a father: I am sure That was your hour of weakness. I was That I love them as if they were mine own; wrong. And I believe, if you were fast my wife, I am always bound to you, but you are That after all these sad uncertain years, free.” We might be still as happy as God grants Then Annie weeping answer'd “I am To any of His creatures. Think upon it: bound.' For I am well-to-do - no kin, no care, No burden, save my care for you and She spoke ; and in one moment as it yours :
were, And we have known each other all our While yet she went about her household lives,
ways, And I have loved you longer than you Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, know.”
That he had loved her longer than she
knew, Then answer'd Annie ; tenderly she That autumn into autumn flash'd again, spoke :
And there he stood once more before her “You have been as God's good angel in face, our house.
Claiming her promise. “Is it a year?" God bless you for it, God reward you for it, she ask'd.