him off to draw him on.

[Illustration]

"I would not fawn upon the hand that smote;
I would not cringe beneath its cruel blow,
Nor even let her know I cared for it.
I kept aloof--as proud as Lucifer.
But when the church-bells chimed on Sabbath morn
To that proud monument of stone I went--
Her father's pride, since he had led the list
Of wealthy patrons who had builded it--
To hear the sermon--for methought Pauline
Would hear it too. Might I not see her face,
And she not know I cared to look upon it?
She came not, and the psalms and sermon fell
Upon me like an autumn-mist of rain.
I met her once by chance upon the street--
The day before the appointed wedding-day--
Her and her father--she upon his arm.
'Paul--O Paul!' she said and gave her hand.
I took it with a cold and careless air--
Begged pardon--had forgotten;--'Ah--Pauline?--
Yes, I remembered;--five long years ago--
And I had made so many later friends,
And she had lost so much of maiden bloom!'
Then turning met her father face to face,
Bowed with cold grace and haughtily passed on.
'This is revenge,' I muttered. Even then
My heart ached as I thought of her pale face,
Her pleading eyes, her trembling, clasping hand!
And then and there I would have turned about
To beg her pardon and an interview,
But pride--that serpent ever in my heart--
Hissed '_beggar_,' and I cursed her with the lips
That oft had poured my love into her ears.
'She marries gold to-morrow--let her wed!
She will not wed a beggar, but I think
She'll wed a life-long sorrow--let her wed!
Aye--aye--I hope she'll live to curse the day
Whereon she broke her sacred promises.
And I forgive her?--yea, but not forget.
I'll take good care that she shall not forget;
I'll prick her memory with a bitter thorn
Through all her future. Let her marry gold!'
Thus ran my muttered words, but in my heart
There ran a counter-current; ere I slept
Its silent under-tow had mastered all--
'Forgive and be forgiven.' I resolved
That on the morning of her wedding-day
Would I go kindly and forgive Pauline,
And send her to the altar with my blessing.
That night I read a chapter in this book--
The first for many months, and fell asleep
Beseeching God to bless her.
Then I dreamed
That we were kneeling at my mother's bed--
Her death-bed, and the feeble, trembling hands
Of her who loved us rested on our heads,
And in a voice all tremulous with tears
My mother said: 'Dear children,