She gave me a piteous glance, and her hands locked and unlocked as they lay together in her lap.
"I used to think you loved me, mother," I blurted out.
In another moment she had me in her arms. There was no more doubt between us: she had given him up, and our old sweet, strong comradeship returned.
Ellen W. Olney.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE WASHER AT THE WELL: A BRETON LEGEND.
Nigh a league to the castle still:
Twelve! booms the bell from the old clock-tower.
Now, brave mare, for the stretch up the hill,
Then just a gallop of half an hour.
Half an hour, and home and rest!
Is she watching for him on the oriel stair,
Or cradling the babe on her silken breast
In the hush of the drowsy chamber there?
Holà! steady, good Bonnibelle!
Scared at the wind, or the owlet's flight?
Ha! what stirs by the Washing Well?
Who goes there at the dead of night?
Over the stream below the slope,
Where the women wash their webs at noon,
A form like a shadow seems to grope,
Doubtful under the doubtful moon.