Barbara shook her head. Mrs. Willowby turned to the open book-shelves, and took down a shabby green volume. “It has your mother’s own marks,” she said, as she turned to the page, where a lead pencil had traced a delicate line about the words,—
“Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdom, stars, and sky that holds them all
I, in my pleachèd garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day