TALE TWO.
THE LIFE STORY OF A SOUTHERN WIDOW.
NOT QUITE THE SAME.
“Not quite the same the springtime seems to me,
Since that sad season when in separate ways
Our paths diverged. There are no more such days
As dawned for us in that last time when we
Dwelt in the realm of dreams, illusive dreams;
Spring may be just as fair now, but it seems
Not quite the same.”
“Ah, good evening, Mr. Philmore! I have been expecting you. Have this chair, please.”