University of Virginia Library

Beside the river one girl walked alone,
While these sang from their window.
Wistful, grave,
Beneath a firm, large forehead bloomed her eyes,
Two violets shadowed by a rock. A face
Not beautiful, nor plain, that in you left
A lingering wish to look on it again,
And speak to the spirit behind it.
As she walked,
Her thoughts, in silence, talked among themselves:—

“My Merrimack, I am a homesick girl
To you I tell the secret, you alone.
I think but as a hireling of my work,
The work that looked like a romantic sport
Ere I began it. Woof of poetry
Through some coarse, homely warp forever runs!
Our farm-house 'mid the hills,—I see it now
Framed in the fine gold of Romance.
“Ah me!
How can I like the clatter of the looms,
The grime, the dust, the heat, the dizzy din,
The many faces!
“Hark! some girls are glad!
I hear their happy songs above me. Light,
And tinkling clear, as a harmonica,
The music trickles through the evening red
And ripples down the river. ‘Bonnie Doon’
Dies on the air like an exhaling tear.
And hush again! ‘Sweet Afton's’ lullaby
Puts bird and leaf to sleep.
“You comfort me,
Bright faces blooming out into the sky;
Seen through the wind-swayed tassels of the birch,
You make me think of angels. And why not?
What of that dingy background? So they go
And come, across the moil and toil of earth;
And lend a hand to keep life's weaving smooth.
You and your work are but a little lower,
To One who hears, your song may be as sweet.
Out of that strange, confused machinery
You bring white raiment for the forms of men,
As angels may for souls.
“Fain, fain would I
Be happy in my toil, with you! But sad
I am, and loneliness awakens fear.
What unknown grief awaits me? Tell me, Fate!”

She sat down on a mossy stump, where now
The long, straight spears of sunset struck out gold
From emerald intense. A letter, sealed,
She held before her, studying the words
Upon its face, as if the hand that wrote
Were unfamiliar, yet well known. The seal
She broke at last, slowly, unwillingly,
But waited, sitting there as in a dream.

A girlish voice rang softly through the trees
Beside the vesper-sparrow's. Eleanor,
From her companions strayed a little way,
Sang a low hymn among the violets.

The silent girl, lost in her letter's fold,
Heard hymn and bird-song as she heard the wind,
Listening to none of them. Something she read
Hurt her, as by a sudden, secret blow.
It seemed to her as if a mist had fallen
Among the trees; the pallid river ran
Receding in gray distance. “Is it death?”
She murmured. “If it be death, it is well.”
And sank in cold unconsciousness.
A step
Was on the turf beside her. Eleanor,
Stooping to pluck a pale anemone, saw
A paper fall, a hand as colorless
Drop with it; heard a woman's moan, and ran,
Fluttered and awed, to lift the brow that lay,
Whiter than marble, among flickering leaves.
Esther and Isabel, farther down the bank,
Returned at Eleanor's call. Before they came,
The stranger's eyes half opened, closed again,
Then opened wide, and looked around amazed.
“Lean on me,” Eleanor said; “you must be ill.”
“Ill? All is ill. I thought—I thought I died;
I thought I saw an angel, coming through
The gates of pearl. The trees of heaven were green;
A river ran by. Alas! it is the earth,—
A world I cannot live in.” “We are friends,”
Said Eleanor. “Trust us, dear.” And as she spoke,
With stealthy haste the open letter slipped
Into the stranger's bosom, doubting not
It held some bitter secret.
She, revived,
Under the ministerings of the three,
Arose, and, moaning thanks, would fain have gone,
And left them there. But Esther, quietly
Putting an arm about her, led her up
In tender silence to the homeward road.
The other two went slowly by themselves,
Not seeing Esther more till evening fell.
Then, in their room,—scant lodging had these three
Among a weary house-full, twenty girls,
Who ate and slept beneath one roof,—where they
One small apartment shared, and called it home,—
In their own room together, Esther told
The stranger's name, Ruth Woodburn; and she said
Her friendship would be gain to them: her words,
Her every tone, showed culture. And besides,
She seemed as one by trouble stupefied,—
Was all alone in a strange house, with girls
Of the ill-bred, hoydenish sort, and others, too,
Of the small, peeping species, who delight
To pick and pry at sorrow's keyless lock.
“She is next door to Minta Summerfield,
But Minta has not met her, and I doubt
If Minta's mirth would be good medicine
For one like her. If I had but a home
To give her mothering in!”
“But, Esther, dear,
To us your heart is mother, shelter, home;
Let her, too, find it so,” said Eleanor.
“Will she not come to us?”
And still the friends
Murmured for the sad stranger gentle plans,
Until the lights were out, and through their thoughts
The stillness of the house stole in, with sleep.