Wife of the husband we all cap before,
Mother o' the babes we all breathe blessings on,—
Was caught in converse with a negro page.
Hell thawed that icicle, else "Why was it—
Why?" asked and echoed the fools. "Because, you fools,—"
So did the dame's self answer, she who could,
With that fine candor only forthcoming
When 't is no odds whether withheld or no—
"Because my husband was the saint you say,
And,—with that childish goodness, absurd faith,