"O Sea!" she said, "I trust you;
The land has slipped away;
Myself and all my fortunes
I give to you to-day.
Break off the foamy cable
That holds me to the shore;
For my path is to the eastward,
I can return no more.
But ever while it stretches—
That pale and shining thread—
It pulls upon my heart-strings
Till I wish that I were dead."

Then the sea it sent its ripples
As fast as they could run.
And they caught the bubbles of the wake,
And broke them one by one;
And they tossed the froth in bunches
Away to left and right,
Till of all that foamy cable
But a fragment lay in sight.
And on the circling waters
No clue was left to trace
Where the land beyond invisibly
Held its abiding-place.

"But, oh! "she cried, "it follows—
That ghostly, wavering line—
Like the floating of a garment
Drenched in the chilly brine.
It clings unto the rudder
Like a drowning, snowy hand;
And while it clings, my exiled heart
Strains backward to the land."
Then the sea rolled in its billows.
It rolled them to and fro;
And the floating robe sank out of sight,
And the drowning hand let go.

"O Sea!" she said, "I trust you!
Now tell me, true and bold,
If the new life I am seeking
Will be brighter than the old.
I am stifling for an orbit
Of a wider-sweeping ring;
And there's laughter in me somewhere,
And I have songs to sing.
But life has held me like a vise
That never, never slips;
And when my songs pressed upward,
It smote me on the lips.

"And, Sea," she sighed, "I'm weary
Of failure and of strife;
And I fain would rest for ever,
If this is all of life.
Thy billows rock like mothers' arms
Where babes are hushed to rest;
And the sleepers thou dost take in charge
Are safe within thy breast.
Then, if the way be weary,
I have not strength to go;
And thy rocking bosom, Ocean,
Is the tenderest I know."

Then the sea rose high, and shook her,
As she called upon its name,
Till the life within her wavered,
And went out like a flame.
And stranger voices read the Word,
And sang the parting hymn,
As they dropped her o'er the ship's side
Into the waters dim.
And the rocking ocean drew her down
Its silent ones among,
With all her laughters prisoned,
And all her songs unsung.

There was silence for a little while when the song ended; then Lawrence exclaimed, with irritation, "What sets people out to write such things? The whole world wants to be cheered and amused, and yet some writers seem to take delight in making everything as gloomy as they are. Why can't people keep their blues to themselves?"

The singer shrugged her shoulders. "You mistake, I think. I always fancy that melancholy writing proves a gay writer. Don't you know that school compositions are nearly always didactic and doleful? When I was fifteen years old, and as gay as a lark, I used to write jeremiads at school, and make myself and all the girls cry. I enjoyed it. When a subject is too sore, you don't touch it, and silence proves more than speech."

Lawrence kept the promise he had made, though he put its fulfilment off as long as possible. The morning before his wedding-day he was at early Mass, and, when Mass was over, went into F. Chevreuse's confessional. It would seem that he had not succeeded in "raking up" many transgressions, for ten minutes sufficed for the first confession he had made in fifteen years. But when he came out, his face was very pale, and he lingered in the church long after every one else had left. Glancing in from the sacristy, after his thanksgiving, F. Chevreuse saw him prostrate before the altar, with his lips pressed to the dusty step where many an humble communicant had knelt, and heard him repeat lowly, "Enter not into judgment with thy servant; for no one living shall be justified in thy sight."

The priest looked at him a moment with fatherly love and satisfaction, then softly withdrew.