Along the shores of No-man's-land,
The angel walked, with folded wings,
And shadows fell on every hand,
The burden that the night-wind brings.
With head turned backward, sad and slow
She paced the sands, her eyelids wet,
"Hope mourns," I said, and soft and low,
The angel sighed: "I am Regret."
SIX LOVE LETTERS
"Are there any more of those letters?"
When her father asked this question in an awful tone, Lucilla Richmond could not say No, and dared not say Yes, but as an intermediate course burst into tears and sobbed behind her handkerchief.
"Bring them to me, Lucilla," said her father, as if she had answered him, as indeed she had; and the girl, trembling and weeping, arose to obey him.
Then Mrs. Richmond, her daughter's own self grown older, came behind her husband's chair and patted him on the shoulder. "Please don't be hard with her, my dear," she said, coaxingly. "He's a nice young man, and it's all our fault, after all, as much as hers."
"Perhaps you approve of the whole affair, ma'am," said Mr. Richmond.
"I—no—that is I only—" gasped the little woman; and hearing Lucilla coming, she sank into a chair, blaming herself dreadfully for not having been present at all her daughter's music lessons during the past year.