tle
pot, and over the pot bent a woman-face, the most wonderful, I thought,
that I had ever beheld. For it was older than any countenance I had ever
looked upon. There was not a spot in which a wrinkle could lie, where a
wrinkle lay not. And the skin was ancient and brown, like old parchment.
The woman's form was tall and spare: and when she stood up to welcome
me, I saw that she was straight as an arrow. Could that voice of
sweetness have issued from those lips of age? Mild as they were, could
they be the portals whence flowed such melody? But the moment I saw
her eyes, I no longer wondered at her voice: they were absolutely
young--those of a woman of five-and-twenty, large, and of a clear gray.
Wrinkles had beset them all about; the eyelids themselves were old, and
heavy, and worn; but the eyes were very incarnations of soft light. She
held out her hand to me, and the voice of sweetness again greeted me,
with the single word, "Welcome." She set an old wooden chair for me,
near the fire, and went on with her cooking. A wondrous sense of refuge
and repose came upon me. I felt like a boy who has got home from school,
miles across the hills, through a heavy storm of wind and snow. Almost,
as I gazed on her, I sprang from my seat to kiss those old lips. And
when, having finished her cooking, she brought some of the dish she had
prepared, and set it on a little table by me, covered with a snow-white
cloth, I could not help laying my head on her bosom, and bursting
into happy tears. She put her arms round me, saying, "Poor child; poor
child!"

As I continued to weep, she gently disengaged herself, and, taking a
spoon, put some of the food (I did not know what it was) to my lips,
entreating me most endearingly to swallow it. To please her, I made an
effort, and succeeded. She went on feeding me like a baby, with one arm
round me, till I looked up in her face and smiled: then she gave me the
spoon and told me to eat, for it would do me good. I obeyed her, and
found myself wonderfully refreshed. Then she drew near the fire an
old-fashioned couch that was in the cottage, and making me lie down
upon it, sat at my feet, and began to sing. Amazing store of old ballads
rippled from her lips, over the pebbles of ancient tunes; and the voice
that sang was sweet as the voice of a tuneful maiden that singeth ever
from very fulness of song. The songs were almost all sad, but with a
sound of comfort. One I can faintly recall. It was somet