Fast fading from a dead man's will.

Katrina Harland, fair and sweet,

Sole heiress of your father's land,

Full many a gallant wooer rode

To snare your heart, to win your hand.

And one, perchance—who loved you best,

Feared men might sneer—"he sought her gold"—

And never spoke, but turned away

Stubborn and proud, to call you cold.

Cold? Would I knew! Perhaps you loved,

And mourned him all a virgin life.

Perhaps forgot his very name

As happy mother, happy wife.

Unanswered, sad, I turn away—

"You loved her first, then?" First—well—no—

You little goose, the Harland will

Was proved full sixty years ago.

But Katrine's lands to-day are known

To lawyers as the Glass House tract;

Who were her heirs, no record shows;

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