I turn upon Harry my wondering eyes,

Catching at hopes, as the drowning at straws,

I cry, as the truth for a moment withdraws,

'You're quizzing me, Harry—that's what you're at,

It cannot be you that they speak of like that!'

Then he insists on my telling, displeas'd

At any concealment, What have I heard?

What

Worried and wearied, bewilder'd and teaz'd,

I blurt it out and repeat every word!

[pg 47]

Harry regards me with almost a stare—

Pulls his moustache with a sort of amaze—

Passes his hand through his clustering hair

And—bursts out laughing, as if it was praise!

There is nothing so sweet or full of grace

(Can one who has seen it ever forget?)

As the smile that comes over Harry's face;

It is Heaven on earth—and yet—and yet—

I feel a strange chill steal into my heart—

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