Urith: A Tale of Dartmoor

by S. Baring-Gould

If I of marriage spake one word,

I wot it was not true.

Man loveth none so easy won,

So over fond as you.

All in your garden grows a herb,

I think they call it rue;

There willows weep o'er waters deep—

That is the place for you.

The tears of mortification rushed into Julian's eyes. Her bosom heaved, and sharply she wheeled her horse about, rode back to those that followed, and said to Bessie, in a voice quivering with emotion, "Go on to the two Anthonys. I want a word with Urith."

Without demur Elizabeth left her place and passed Julian, who drew up across the road to force Urith to rein in. Urith looked at her with some surprise. She did not know Julian except by sight; she had never spoken to her in her life. And now this latter stayed her course as though she were a highwayman demanding her purse.