that small corpse-crowded graveyard,
With her pallid face turned upwards,
To and fro in silence rocking,
On a little mound of black dirt!
When the box which held her treasure
Had been borne from home and buried,
She had followed, undetected;
And when all had left the graveyard
She had crept to that small hillock,
Trembling like a half-crusht lily;
Yearning towards the child beneath her,
Yet, the while, to earth-life clinging
By a link--bruised but unbroken.
Whilst at home her frantic husband
Called aloud in vain for "Blanche!"

IV.

Hours flew by like honey-laden
Bees, with sting and honey laden:
Days, like ghostly shadows, flitted
By; and weeks and months rolled onward
With a never-ceasing rolling,
Like the blue bright waves a-rolling,
Never quiet--never ending!
Still the girlish, grief-worn figure,
Might be seen, with vacant glances,
Threading through life's rushing whirlpool--
Gliding, like a sunbeam, o'er it--
To that small corpse-crowded graveyard;
Where for hours she'd sit and murmur,
With a wild and plaintive wailing;
"Come back, darling! Come back, darling;
Come, for I am broken-hearted."
When at home, with nimble fingers
Oft she'd clothe a doll and call it
Her sweet babe--her darling baby--
Her long-absent, long-lost baby!
Her fair bonny-featured baby!
And her husband would bend o'er her,
With low words of pure affection--
As when first he woo'd and won her.
And her home was not the dungeon--
The sad, dark, and dismal dungeon--
The cold death-vault of her infant,
With the drear and ghastly rushlight:
But a home of cottage comfort,
Every sweet of love and loving.
Yes! the wan and pallid mother
Found on that dark night, a husband--
Found a home; but--lost her reason!

V.

"Do not, for the world, awake her!
'Twere her death-knell to awake her!"
Urged the old and careful nursewife.
"Let me look but for a moment--
Gaze but for one little moment!"
'Twas the voice of Charles that pleaded:
Softly, then, he drew the curtain,
Gently, fearful, drew the curtain--
"Charles!--dear Charles!" a faint voice murmured,
In a tone so weak and lowly,
Sweetly weak and soul-subduing.
"Blanche!--my sweet one!" gasp'd the husband,
"Dost thou know me?--God, I thank thee!"
Then he threw his arms around her,
And, amidst a shower of kisses,
Truest, purest, g