Once more she trips?
Is it the fragrance that clings to her basket—
Fragrance of violets that rich men have bought—
That takes her to woodlands away from the city,
Where with blue violets the moss is enwrought?
Surely the wings of God’s angel of pity
Shadow her thought.
A. M.
MERLE’S CRUSADE.
By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.