much bone. Anatomists will tell you that there is a heart in the
withered old maid's carcase--the same as in that of any cherished wife
or proud mother in the land. Can this be so? I really don't know; but
feel inclined to doubt it.

I came forward, bade Frances "good evening," and took my seat. The chair
I had chosen was one she had probably just left; it stood by a little
table where were her open desk and papers. I know not whether she had
fully recognized me at first, but she did so now; and in a voice, soft
but quiet, she returned my greeting. I had shown no eagerness; she took
her cue from me, and evinced no surprise. We met as me had always met,
as master and pupil--nothing more. I proceeded to handle the papers;
Frances, observant and serviceable, stepped into an inner room, brought
a candle, lit it, placed it by me; then drew the curtain over the
lattice, and having added a little fresh fuel to the already bright
fire, she drew a second chair to the table and sat down at my right
hand, a little removed. The paper on the top was a translation of
some grave French author into English, but underneath lay a sheet with
stanzas; on this I laid hands. Frances half rose, made a movement to
recover the captured spoil, saying, that was nothing--a mere copy of
verses. I put by resistance with the decision I knew she never long
opposed; but on this occasion her fingers had fastened on the paper. I
had quietly to unloose them; their hold dissolved to my touch; her hand
shrunk away; my own would fain have followed it, but for the present I
forbade such impulse. The first page of the sheet was occupied with
the lines I had overheard; the sequel was not exactly the writer's own
experience, but a composition by portions of that experience suggested.
Thus while egotism was avoided, the fancy was exercised, and the heart
satisfied. I translate as before, and my translation is nearly literal;
it continued thus:--

When sickness stay'd awhile my course,
He seem'd impatient still,
Because his pupil's flagging force
Could not obey his will.

One day when summoned to the bed
Where pain and I did strive,
I heard him, as he bent his head,
Say, "God, she must revive!"

I felt his hand, with gentle stress,
A moment laid on mine,
And wished to mark my consciousness
By some responsive sign.

But pow'rless then to speak or move,
I only felt, within,