See, while I speak, the pressure of our hands

47

Fades slowly from remembrance, and is fled,

And our weak hearts accept their fate. Nay, nay,

We meet again, but never as to-day."

To this Griselda answered nothing. She

Was pleased, yet disconcerted. Poetry

Is always pleasant to a woman's ear,

And to Griselda had been doubly dear,

If it had touched less nearly. But her heart

Had bounded with too violent a start

To leave her certain of her self-control,

In this new joy which seemed to probe her soul.

And feeling frightened she had tried to find

A reason for the tumult of her mind

In being angry. He should not have dared

To strike so near the truth. Or had she bared

Her soul so plain to his that he should speak

Of both as an eye-witness? She felt weak

And out of temper with herself and him,

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