VII.

She enters now the house so sweet,

And daughter Katherine bathes her feet.

Then sets her down to dine in state,

But my Anna nor drank nor ate.

“Katherine!

When is our Sunday?”

“After tomorrow’s the day.”

“Prayers for the dead soon will we need

Such as St. Nicholas may heed.

Then we must an offering pay,

For Mark tarries on the way.

Perchance somewhere,

from our vision hid,

Sickness has ta’en him

which God forbid.”

The tears dropped down

from the sad old eyes,

So wearily did she

from the table rise.

“Katherine,

My race is run,

All my earthly tasks are done.

My powers no longer I command

Nor on my feet have strength to stand.

And yet, my Kate, how can I die

While in this dear warm home I lie?”

The sickness harder grows amain,

For her the sacred host’s appointed,

She’s been with holy oils anointed,

Yet nought relieves her pain.

Old Trophim’ in courtyard walks a-ring

Moving like a stricken thing.

Katherine, for the suff’rers sake

Doth never rest for her eyelids take.

And even the owls upon the roof

Of coming evil tell the proof.

The suff’rer now, each day, each hour,

Whispers the question, with waning power

“Daughter Katherine, is Mark yet here?

So struggle I with doubt and fear,

Did I but know I’d see him for sure

Through all my pain I might endure.”