To barter, nor compensating the want 250 By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, Nor asking overmuch and taking less,

And still foreboding "what would Enoch say?” For more than once, in days of difficulty And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 255 Than what she gave in buying what she sold : She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus, Expectant of that news which never came, Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, And lived a life of silent melancholy.

260

Now the third child was sickly-born and grew Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it With all a mother's care: nevertheless, Whether her business often call'd her from it, Or thro' the want of what it needed most, 265 Or means to pay the voice who best could tell What most it needed- howsoe'er it was,

270

After a lingering, ere she was aware,
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly,
The little innocent soul flitted away.

In that same week when Annie buried it, Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace (Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. "Surely," said Philip, "I may see her now, 275 May be some little comfort;" therefore went, Past thro' the solitary room in front,

Paused for a moment at an inner door, Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief, 230 Fresh from the burial of her little one,

985

290

Cared not to look on any human face,
But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept.
Then Philip standing up said falteringly,
"Annie, I came to ask a favor of you."

He spoke; the passion in her moan'd reply, "Favor from one so sad and so forlorn

As I am!" half abash'd him; yet unask'd,
His bashfulness and tenderness at war,
He set himself beside her, saying to her:

"I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, Enoch, your husband: I have ever said

You chose the best among us a strong man: For where he fixt his heart he set his hand To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. 295 And wherefore did he go this weary way,

And leave you lonely? not to see the world For pleasure?-nay, but for the wherewithal To give his babes a better bringing-up

Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish. 300 And if he come again, vext will he be

To find the precious morning hours were lost.
And it would vex him even in his grave,

If he could know his babes were running wild
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now
305 Have we not known each other all our lives?
I do beseech you by the love you bear
Him and his children not to say me nay -
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again,
Why then he shall repay me if you will,
10 Annie for I am rich and well-to-do.
Now let me put the boy and girl to school:
This is the favor that I came to ask."

Then Annie with her brows against the wall Answer'd, "I cannot look you in the face 15 I seem so foolish and so broken down.

;

When you came in my sorrow broke me down; And now I think your kindness breaks me down; But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me ;

He will repay you: money can be repaid; 820 Not kindness such as yours.”

"Then you will let me, Annie?"

And Philip ask'd

There she turn'd,

She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him,
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face,

Then calling down a blessing on his head

325 Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately, And past into the little garth beyond.

So lifted up in spirit he moved away.

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, And bought them needful books, and every way, $30 Like one who does his duty by his own,

Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake,
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port,

He oft denied his heart his dearest wish,
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent
135 Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit,
The late and early roses from his wall,

Or conies from the down, and now and then,
With some pretext of fineness in the meal
To save the offence of charitable, flour
Mo From his tall mill that whistled on the waste.
339. To make it seem not like a gift of charity.

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind:
Scarce could the woman when he came upon her,
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude
Light on a broken word to thank him with.
345 But Philip was her children's all-in-all;
From distant corners of the street they ran
To greet his hearty welcome heartily;

Lords of his house and of his mill were they;
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs
350 Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him,
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd
As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them
Uncertain as a vision or a dream,

Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 25 Down at the far end of an avenue,

Going we know not where and so ten years,
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land,
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came.

It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd 360 To go with others nutting to the wood,

And Annie would go with them; then they begg'd For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too: Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and saying to him, 865 "Come with us, Father Philip," he denied ; But when the children pluck'd at him to go, He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, For was not Annie with them? and they went.

But after scaling half the weary down, 370 Just where the prone edge of the wood began

370. The repetition here of the phrase in line 67 is one of the instances of the device used in the poem to bind together the

To feather toward the hollow, all her force
Fail'd her; and sighing, "Let me rest," she said:
So Philip rested with her well-content;

While all the younger ones with jubilant cries
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously
Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other
And calling, here and there, about the wood.

But Philip sitting at her side forgot Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour Here in this wood, when like a wounded life He crept into the shadow: at last he said, 385 Lifting his honest forehead, "Listen, Annie, How merry they are down yonder in the wood. Tired, Annie?" for she did not speak a word. "Tired?" but her face had fall'n upon her hands, At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 390"The ship was lost," he said, "the ship was lost! No more of that! why should you kill yourself And make them orphans quite?" And Annie said "I thought not of it: but I know not whyTheir voices make me feel so solitary."

395 Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke.
"Annie, there is a thing upon my mind,
And it has been upon my mind so long,
That tho' I know not when it first came there,
I know that it will out at last. Oh, Annie,

400 It is beyond all hope, against all chance,

-

two parts of the tragedy and make it all one. Compare lines 80 and 507, for a similar practice; still others will be found.