Mere children she had thought, and happily.

Each went her way engrossed by her new bliss,

Too gay to guess Griselda's dumb distress.

Her home was broken. In their pride they wrote

Things that like swords against her bosom smote,

The detail of their hopes, and loves, and fears.

Griselda read, and scarce restrained her tears.

Her mother too, the latest fledgling flown,

Had vanished from the world. She was alone.

23

When she returned to London, earlier

Than was her custom, in the following year,

She found her home a desert, dark and gaunt;

L. House looked emptier, gloomier than its wont.

Griselda sighed, for on the table lay

Two letters, which announced each in its way

The expected tidings of her sisters' joy.

Either was brought to bed—and with a boy.

Her generous heart leaped forth to these in vain,

It could not cheat a first sharp touch of pain,

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