As if she truly had been the cause--
Yea, his deserter; and came to wonder
What mould of man he was.

"Tell me my history!" would exclaim she;
"OUR history," she said mournfully.
"But YOU know, surely, Ma'am?" they would answer,
Much in perplexity.

Curious, she crept to his grave one evening,
And a second time in the dusk of the morrow;
Then a third time, with crescent emotion
Like a bereaved wife's sorrow.

No gravestone rose by the rounded hillock;
--"I marvel why this is?" she said.
- "He had no kindred, Ma'am, but you near."
--She set a stone at his head.

She learnt to dream of him, and told them:
"In slumber often uprises he,
And says: 'I am joyed that, after all, Dear,
You've not deserted me!"

At length died too this kinless woman,
As he had died she had grown to crave;
And at her dying she besought them
To bury her in his grave.

Such said, she had paused; until she added: