ending to take you home with me.
I found you, as I then thought, on your death-bed. I settled with your
separate teachers, and closed the school. With the French woman who
claimed to be Richard's wife, and with whom he had probably gone through
the form of marriage, as with you, I made an arrangement satisfactory to
her to sell the property and give her an equivalent for its value."

"But what motive," I asked hesitatingly, "could Richard have had for his
course?"

"Motive? The same that had actuated him through life. With you, Agnes, he
would have lived probably as he did with others, until his versatile
heart demanded a change. Then, with your little estate in his hands and
Herbert's property in his power, he would have deserted you for some new
beauty.

"But let the grave cover his mistakes and evils. I believe that a good
God will not punish him too severely for propensities which he
inherited."

Once more I yielded to the charms of companionship and love. Severe
trials had proved Mr. Bristed's worth, and when he again asked me to make
the remnant of his life happy by my care and love--to become his wife,
and share his home, and reign queen of his heart--I consented. When the
June roses blossomed, we were married. The balmy air and opening buds
spoke of a new life. They typified my new life, truly. The glitter and
gloss which had deceived me in youth would never beguile me more. I had
learned that it was not the external man, but the internal that was
worthy of love.

The shadowy form of Alice never troubled me again, I believe reparation
can be made beyond the tomb, and that in some far-off world the new-born
spirit of Richard atones to Alice and Herbert for the wrong he did them
in this.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

_TO HER HUSBAND_.

Dead! dead! You call her dead!
You cannot see her in her glad surprise,
Kissing the tear-drops from your weeping eyes;
Moving about you through the ambient air,
Smoothing the whitening ripples of your hair.

Dead! dead! You call her dead!
You cannot see the flowers she daily twines
In garlands for you, from immortal vines;
The danger she averts you never know;
For her sweet care you only tears bestow.

Dead! dead! You call her dead!
Vainly you'll wait until the last trump sound!
Vainly your love entombed beneath the ground!
Vainly in kirk-yard raise your mournful wail!
Your loved is living in some sunnier vale.

Dead! dead! You call