“I must be mistaken, since he did not care to know me, and went past when Mr. Sherwood came in. Oh, why do I care? I do not even know him, unless our souls spoke to each other in our glances when he passed me by. And, of course, he is in love with that lovely little Lutie Fleming. Yet I hoped—and was vain enough to fancy—that he sent me these sweet verses,” half sobbed the girl, yet still reading them over with a thrill at her heart.
Sweet girl, though only once we met,
That meeting I can ne’er forget;
And though we never meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain.
What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;
And soul’s interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn cold restraints and scorn disguise.
Now as on thee my memory ponders,