the one Thing she could not forgive was the thing he had done. It was wicked, indecent, and so unrefined. To the lure of the senses her nature was blind, And her mantle of charity never had been Wide enough to quite cover that one vulgar sin. 

No thought

 In the letter she sent to Maurice, though she said Little more than her thanks for his kindness, he read All her tense nervous feelings between its few lines. Though we study our words, the keen reader divines What we thought while we penned them; thought odors reveal What words not infrequently seek to conceal. 

 Maurice read the grief, the resentment, the shame Which Mabel's heart held; to his own bosom came Stealing back, masked demurely as friendly regard, The hope of a lover—that hope long debarred. His letters grew frequent; their tone, dignified, Unselfish, and manly, appealed to her pride. Sweet sympathy mingled with praise in each line (As a gentle narcotic is stirred into wine), Soothed pain, stimulated self love, and restored her The pleasure of knowing the man still adored her. 

 Understand, Mabel Montrose was not a coquette, She lacked all the arts of the temptress; and yet She was young, she was feminine; love to her mind Was extreme admiration; it pleased her to find She was still, to Maurice, an ideal. A woman Must be quite unselfish, almost superhuman, And full of strong sympathy, who, in her soul, Feels no wrench when she knows she has lost all control O'er the heart of a man who once loved her. 

 Months passed, And Mabel accepted her burden at last And went back to her world and its duties. Her eyes, Seemed to say when she looked at you, "please sympathize, On the slight graceful form or the beautiful face. Twas a sorrow of mind, not a sorrow of heart, And the two play a wholly dissimilar part In the life of a woman. 

Months passed,

 Maurice Somerville Kept his place as good friend through sheer force of his will But his heart was in tumult; he longed for the time When, free once again from the legalized crime Of her ties, she might listen to all he would say. There was anguish, and doubt, and suspense in delay, Yet Mabel spoke never of freedom. At length He wrote her, "My will has exhausted its strength. Read the song I enclose; though my lips must be mute, The muse may at least improvise to her lute." 

Maurice Somerville

 Song. 

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