“What lacks my heart, what makes it
So weary and full of pain?
That trembling hope forsakes it
Never to come again!
Only another heart,
Tender and all mine own,
In the still grave it lies;
I weep alone!”
“Shall you go to the door, aunt, or shall I?” repeated Mae Sweetland, with a stifled heart-pang in her musical voice, the sight of Viola had awakened so bitterly the memory of the night when she had first entered the cottage as Rolfe’s bride, bringing woe and desolation in her train.
“Oh, I do not wish to see her! I—I hate the sight of the beautiful face that drove poor Rolfe mad and sent him to his death!” groaned the bereaved mother.