Out of full heart and boundless gratitude
Light on a broken word to thank him with.
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
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
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

Το 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

'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, Just where the prone edge of the wood began 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, 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,

'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."

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 'Annie, there is a thing upon my mind,

T. VI

17

с

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. O Annie,
It is beyond all hope, against all chance,
That he who left you ten long years ago
Should still be living; well then-let me speak:
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help :
I cannot help you as I wish to do

Unless they say that women are so quickPerhaps you know what I would have you know

my

I wish you for wife. I fain would prove
A father to your children: I do think
They love me as a father: I am sure
That I love them as if they were mine own;
And I believe, if you were fast my wife,
That after all these sad uncertain years,
We might be still as happy as God grants
Το any of his creatures. Think upon it :
For I am well-to-do-no kin, no care,
No burthen, save my care for you and yours:
And we have known each other all

And I have loved you longer than

our lives,

you

know.'

Then answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke : 'You have been as God's good angel in our

house.

God bless you for it, God reward you for it,
Philip, with something happier than myself.
Can one love twice? can you be ever loved

As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?'
'I am content' he answer'd to be loved
A little after Enoch.' 'O'she cried,
Scared as it were, 'dear Philip, wait a while :
If Enoch comes-but Enoch will not come-
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long:
Surely I shall be wiser in a year :
O wait a little !' Philip sadly said

Annie, as I have waited all my life

I well may wait a little.' 'Nay' she cried 'I am bound: you have my promise-in a year. Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?' And Philip answer'd I will bide my year.'

Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ; Then fearing night and chill for Annie, rose And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood. Up came the children laden with their spoil; Then all descended to the port, and there At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, Saying gently 'Annie, when I spoke to you, That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong, I am always bound to you, but you are free.' Then Annie weeping answer'd 'I am bound.'

She spoke; and in one moment as it were, While yet she went about her household ways, Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words,

That he had loved her longer than she knew,
That autumn into autumn flash'd again,

And there he stood once more before her face, Claiming her promise. Is it a year?' she ask'd.

'Yes, if the nuts' he said 'be ripe again :

Come out and see.' But she-she put him off

So much to look to such a change-a monthGive her a month-she knew that she was

bound

A month-no more. Then Philip with his
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice

Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand,

eyes

Take your own time, Annie, take your own

time.'

And Annie could have wept for pity of him;
And yet she held him on delayingly
With many a scarce-believable excuse,
Trying his truth and his long-sufferance,
Till half-another year had slipt away.

By this the lazy gossips of the port, Abhorrent of a calculation crost, Began to chafe as at a personal wrong.

Some thought that Philip did but trifle with

her;

Some that she but held off to draw him on ;

And others laugh'd at her and Philip too,

As simple folk that knew not their own minds,