_Grace_.

I am ashamed,--
In truth I am ashamed--to tell you all.
You will not laugh at me?

_Mary_.

I laugh at you?

_Grace_.

Forgive me, Mary, for my heart is weak;
Distrustful of itself and all the world.
Ah, well! To what strange issues leads our life!
It seems but yesterday that you were brought
To this old house, an orphaned little girl,
Whose large shy eyes, pale cheeks, and shrinking ways
Filled all our hearts with wonder, as we stood
And stared at you, until your heart o'erfilled
With the oppressive strangeness, and you wept.
Yes, I remember how I pitied you--
I who had never wept, nor even sighed,
Save on the bosom of my gentle mother;
For my quick heart caught all your history
When with a hurried step you sought the sun,
And pressed your eyes against the windowpane
That God's sweet light might dry them. Well I knew
Though all untaught, that you were motherless.
And I remember how I followed you,--