Evening—
An old woman was sitting on the doorstep muttering to herself in some strange tongue—
Her vague eyes saw neither the square nor its straight rows of trees—
Only something far away—a memory perhaps
Some tragedy lay hidden in her heart.
Many years ago this small house had been occupied by a family with several children—children that played games in the great garden behind.
A young woman had been much with the little troop of children.
They had all loved her who played with them as if a child herself and in happy hours had sung French songs to them.
She had gone away, they had heard to the Island of Madeira.
—and the children soon forgot their sweet friend.
On the steps of this now abandoned house sat the muttering old woman.