Was scanned with prying gaze and glance,
Among the slowly moving crowd
That, greedy of the precious chance,
Read furtively, but half aloud,
The pages of their new romance.

"A child!" And Mildred caught the word.
"A plaything!" And, another voice:
"Fine feathers, and a Southern bird!"
And still one more; "A parson's choice!"
And trembling Mildred overheard.

These from the careless or the dull--
Gossips at best; at wisest, dolts;
And though her quickened ear might cull
From out their whispered thunderbolts
A "lovely!" and a "beautiful!"

And though sweet mother-faces smiled,
And bows were given with friendly grace,
And many a pleasant little child
Sought sympathy within her face,
Her aching heart was not beguiled.

She did not see--she only felt--
As up the staring aisle she walked--
The critic glances, coldly dealt,
By those who looked, and bent, and talked;
And, even, when at last she knelt