His talk is idle, a surface-gleam,
The ripple on the rest of the stream,
But his thoughts—ah, his thoughts—where do
they fly,
While the wretched roses under his eye
Flutter and peep? and in what doth his plan
Turn to the counsel of Sister Anne?
For his eyes give ever a questioning look,
And the little one in her quiet nook
Flashes an answer, and back again