Thinking you would not come.

Ah, tell me what you have to do,

That makes your duty, sweet, for you

My rival in your home."

[Pg 10]

"My home!" she answered, "I have none.

For me, 'tis years since there was one,

And that was scarcely mine.

Father and mother both are dead;

I sell sweet flowers to earn my bread—

Their fragrance is my wine.

"Sometimes the house upon the farm,

Sometimes the city's friendly arm,

Shields me from rain and dew.

I did not know that it was late;

The minutes you have had to wait,

Are truly but a few."

A smile shone through her large dark eyes,

As sometimes, in the stormy skies,

The light puts through an arm,

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