No tidings of her husband; if he lived,

She knew not that he lived; if he were dead,

She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same In person and appearance; but her house

Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence.

The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth
Was comfortless, and her small lot of books,
Which, in the cottage window, heretofore
Had been piled up against the corner panes
In scemly order, now, with straggling leaves
Lay scattered here and there, open or shut,
As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe
Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief,
And sighed among its playthings. Once again
I turned towards the garden gate, and saw,
More plainly still, that poverty and grief
Were now come nearer to her: weeds defaced
The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass;
No ridges there appeared of clear black mould,
No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers,
It seemed the better part were gnawed away
Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw,
Which had been twined about the slender stem

Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root;
The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep.
-Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms,
And, noting that my eye was on the tree,
She said, 'I fear it will be dead and gone
Ere Robert come again.' Towards the house
Together we returned, and she inquired
If I had any hope:-but for her babe,
And for her little orphan boy, she said,

She had no wish to live-that she must die
Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom
Still in its place; his Sunday garments hung
Upon the selfsame nail; his very staff
Stood undisturbed behind the door. And when,
In bleak December, I retraced this way,
She told me that her little babe was dead,
And she was left alone. She now, released
From her maternal cares, had taken up

The employment common through these wilds, and gained
By spinning hemp a pittance for herself;

And for this end had hired a neighbour's boy

To give her needful help. That very time

Most willingly she put her work aside,

And walked with me along the miry road,
Heedless how far; and, in such piteous sort

That any heart had ached to hear her, begged
That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask

For him whom she had lost. We parted then—
Our final parting; for from that time forth
Did many seasons pass ere I returned

Into this tract again.

"Nine tedious years

From their first separation, nine long years,

She lingered in unquiet widowhood;

A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been
A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my Friend,
That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate

Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath day;
And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit
The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench
For hours she sate; and evermore her eye

Was busy in the distance, shaping things

That made her heart beat quick. You see that path, Now faint, the grass has crept o'er its grey line; There, to and fro, she paced through many a day

Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp

That girt her waist, spinning the long drawn thread With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed

The little child who sate to turn the wheel

Ceased from his task; and she with faltering voice
Made many a fond inquiry; and when they,
Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by,
Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate,
That bars the traveller's road, she often stood,
And when a stranger horseman came, the latch
Would lift, and in his face look wistfully;

Most happy, if, from aught discovered there

Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat

The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor hut
Sank to decay: for he was gone whose hand,
At the first nipping of October frost,

Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw
Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived
Through the long winter, reckless and alone;

Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain,

Was sapped; and while she slept, the nightly damps
Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day
Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind;
Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still

She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds
Have parted hence and still that length of road,

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