rheumatism to wait upon him, so he had to ladle out his own portion of
porridge, get his books and candle for himself, and finally bring in
some fagots for the fire.

When he sat down to study he found himself in a more cheerful mood than
he had been in for many a day, though he could not help wondering what
had become of Leo. As he went on thinking where the boy could be he was
inspired to write what he called a sonnet upon the subject. Here it is:

"My boy has fled his father's home,
No more he treads these halls;
In vain my voice invokes his name,
In vain my tears, my calls.
The night winds sigh, the owlets cry,
The moon's pale light appears,
The stars are shivering in the sky--
I tremble at my fears.
Has then the Knight of Shadowy Dread
My Leo forced away
From his fond parent's loving heart
In Death's grim halls astray?
I bow reluctant to my fate;
'Tis mine to weep and mine to wait!"

He counted the lines over carefully; the eighth and tenth seemed short,
but it scanned after a fashion. On the whole it suited him, and was
rather better done than many of his verses, so with soothed nerves he
sought his pillow.

The old woman had slumbered all the evening in her chair. Indeed her