“She wanders: ’tis the fever at her brain!”
And looked her thought. The other cried again:
“Yes! I am ill of body and soul indeed,
Yet this was as I say. O, not for me
Pity, from you who wear the widow’s weed,
Unknowing!”—“Woman, whose could that love be,
If not all mine?” The other, with a moan,
Rose in her bed; the pillow, backward thrown,
Was darkened with the torrent of her hair.
“’Twas hers,” she wailed,—“’twas hers who loved him best.”