But not a subtler thought of joy
Could thrilling through a seraph go,
Than that your presence brought to cloy
And weigh my life down into calm,
With an unutterable sense—
Like music perfumed with the balm
Of dews star-shed—all too intense!
“Most too high-strung for my purposes, it must be confessed! He never expresses any flesh and blood in his correspondence. Ah, well, I’ll soon bring him out of that! But this really does puzzle me! This is all the note contains.” She turns the note to examine it. “It is certainly in his hand, yet he makes no explanation.”
Here the child, whose blood seemed ready to burst through her face in the continued effort to restrain her laughter, tittered aloud. The mother sprang erect, and, turning upon her with an expression of rage and surprise upon her face—
“What! Why, what are you laughing about? What business is this of yours, pray?”