n
Till the yearning slips
Thro' the finger-tips
In a fire which a few discern,
And a very few feel burn,
And the rest, they may live and learn!

Then we would up and pace,
For a change, about the place,
Each with arm o'er neck:
'Tis our quarter-deck,
We are seamen in woeful case.
Help in the ocean-space!
Or, if no help, we'll embrace."

The next play must be "dressing-up"; for the sailor-game had ended in
that nonsense of a kiss because they had not thought of dressing
properly the parts:

"See how she looks now, dressed
In a sledging-cap and vest!
'Tis a huge fur cloak--
Like a reindeer's zoke
Falls the lappet along the breast:
Sleeves for her arms to rest,
Or to hang, as my Love likes best."

Now it is _his_ turn; he must learn to "flirt a fan as the Spanish
ladies can"--but she must pretend too, so he makes her a burnt-cork
moustache, and she "turns into such a man!" . . .

All this was three months ago, when the snow first mesmerised the earth
and put it to sleep. Snow-time is love-time--for hearts can then show
all:

"How is earth to know
Neath the mute hand's to-and-fro?"

* * * * *

Three months ago--and now it is spring, and such a dawn of day! The
March sun feels like May. He looks out upon it:

"All is blue again
After last night's rain,
And the South dries the hawthorn-spray.
Only, my Love's away!
I'd as lief that the blue were grey."

Yes--she is gone; they have quarrelled. Or rather, since it does not
take two to do that wretched deed, _she_ has quarrelled. It was some
little thing that he said--neither sneer nor vaunt, nor reproach nor
taunt:

"And the friends were friend and foe!"

She went away, and she has not come back, and it is three months ago.

One cannot help suspecting that the little thing he said, which was
_not_ so many things, must then have been something peculiarly tactless!
This girl was not, like some of us, devoid of humour--that much is
clear: laughter lived in her as in its home. What _had_ he said?
Whatever it was, he "did not mean it." But that is frequently the sting
of stings. Spontaneity which hurts us hurts far more than malice
can--for it is more evidently sincere in what it has of the too-much, or
the too-little. . . . Well, angry exceedingly, or wounde