Through the ripe August day,

 They had been much together Through all the bright stretches of midsummer weather, Ruth, Roger, and Mabel and he. Scarce a day But the four were united in work or in play. And much of the play to a man or a maid Not in love had seemed labor. Recital, charade, Garden party, church festival, musical, hop, Were all planned by Miss Lee without respite or stop. The poor were the richer; school, hospital, church, The heathen, the laborer left in the lurch By misfortune, the orphan, the indigent old, Our kind Lady Bountiful aided with gold Which she filched from the pockets of pleasure—God's spoil, And God's blessing will follow such lives when they toil Through an infinite sympathy. 

They had been much together

 Fair Mabel Lee Loved to rule and to lead. She was eager to be In the eyes of the public. That modern day craze Possessed her in secret, and this was its phase. An innocent, even commendable, fad Which filled empty larders and cheered up the sad. She loved to do good. But, alas! in her heart, She loved better still the authoritative part Which she played in her town. 

Fair Mabel Lee

 'Neath the saint's aureole Lurked the feminine tyrant who longed to control, And who never would serve; but her sway was so sweet, That her world was contented to bow at her feet. 

'Neath the saint's aureole

 Who toils in the great public vineyard must needs Let other hands keep his own garden from weeds. So busy was Mabel with charity fairs She gave little thought to her home or its cares. Mrs. Lee, like the typical modern day mother, Was maid to her daughter; the father and brother Were slaves at her bidding; an excellent plan To make a tyrannical wife for some man. 

 Yet where was the man who, beholding the grace Of that slight girlish creature, and watching her face With its infantile beauty and sweetness, would dare Think aught but the rarest of virtues dwelt there? Rare virtues she had, but in commonplace ones Which make happy husbands and home loving sons She was utterly lacking. Ruth Somerville saw In sorrow and silence this blemishing flaw In the friend whom she loved with devotion! Maurice Saw only the angel with eyes full of peace. The faults of plain women are easily seen. But who cares to peer back of beauty's fair screen For things which are ugly to look on? 

 The lover Is not quite in love 

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