“He will come to-night, Madam. In one hour he will be here. I feel sure that he will,” said Drusilla, cheerfully.
CHAPTER VIII.
FATAL LOVE.
Childhood’s lip and cheek
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought;
And in the flute-like voice murmuring low,
Is woman’s tenderness, how soon her woe!
Her lot is on thee, silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear through painful hours,
And sumless riches from affection’s deep,
To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower!