u live in the woods. You are good. I can trust you.
All men, I have heard, come to you in their trouble.
Have you seen in the North, have you met in the woods,
Has there come to your cabin a man, tall as you,
Brave as you and as tender? A man like to this?"
And out of her gown, from the folds on her bosom,
She lifted a locket of pearl-colored velvet,
Touched a spring, and I saw, as the lid of it opened,
The face of the man I and Henry had buried!

"John Norton," she cried, and her eyes burned like fever.
Her hand shook and trembled, her face was as marble,
"Have you seen in the woods man like to this picture?
Speak quick and speak true as to woman in trouble.
For I did him great wrong, I thought he held lightly
My fair name and fame; held lightly my honor.
I thought he meant evil, and my heart, filled with anger,
Dismissed him in scorn; but I learned, I learned later,
He was true, and spake truth and loved me as heaven."

Then I stood and I looked and held my face steady,
So it gave her no sign of what I was thinking.
I saw she was honest, and I wished then to spare her,
But my word it was pledged, pledged to him in dying,
To stand as I stood, face to face with this woman,
In her house, in that room, and give her his message.
Beside, not to know is far worse than the knowing
At times. So I rallied and told her the message,
Word for word, as he charged, the night he lay dying
In his house on the bank above the swift rapids.

"Madame," I said, "I have seen man like that picture,
Face and form. He was brave as you say. He was tender.
He was true unto death, and he loved you as heaven.
And these are the words that he sent you in dying.
I, a man of the woods, bring you this as last message,
From one who now sleeps on the bank of the rapids
Of that northern river which pours its brown water
To the Lake of St. John from far Mistassinni.
'Tell her, John Norton, I loved her. Loved her in living,
With a love that was true, and with same love in dying.
Loved her like a man, like a saint, like a sinner,
For time now and time ever. That the one picture
She gave me I kept;--living, dying, and after.
That it lies on the breast of the man that you buried;
On the breast of the man who living did love her,
And that there it will lie until it shall crumble,