Little Olga crept into his arms;
Arthur leant upon his shoulder; May
Knelt beside him, with her earnest eyes
Lifted up in patient, calm surprise—
I can almost hear his words to-day.
“Years ago, my children, years ago,
When your mother was a child, she came
From her northern home, and here she met
Love for love, and comfort for regret,
In one early friend,—you know her name.
“And this friend—a few years older—gave
Such fond care, such love, that day by day
The new home grew happy, joy complete,
Studies easier, and play more sweet,
While all childish sorrows passed away.
“And your mother—fragile, like my May—
Leant on this deep love,—nor leant in vain.
For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart!)
Gave the sweet, and took the bitter part,—
Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain.
“Years passed on, and then I saw them first:
It was hard to say which was most fair,
Your sweet mother’s bright and blushing face,
Or the graver Margaret’s stately grace;
Golden locks, or braided raven hair.
“Then it happened, by a strange, sad fate,
One thought entered into each young soul:
Joy for one—if for the other pain;
Loss for one—if for the other gain:
One must lose, and one possess the whole.
“And so this—this—what they cared for—came
And belonged to Margaret: was her own.
But she laid the gift aside, to take
Pain and sorrow for your mother’s sake,
And none knew it but herself alone.
“Then she travelled far away, and none
The strange mystery of her absence knew.
Margaret’s secret thought was never told:
Even your mother thought her changed and cold,
And for many years I thought so too.
“She was gone; and then your mother took
That poor gift which Margaret laid aside:
Flower, or toy, or trinket, matters not:
What it was had better be forgot . . .
It was just then she became my bride.
“Now, I think May knows the hope I have.
Arthur, darling, can you guess the rest?
Even my little Olga understands
Great gifts can be given by little hands,
Since of all gifts Love is still the best.