ool of herself at last, they say.
That comes of taking airs!

_Margery_. What meanst thou?

_Lizzy_. Pah!
She daily eats and drinks for two now.

_Margery_. Ah!

_Lizzy_. It serves the jade right for being so callow.
How long she's been hanging upon the fellow!
Such a promenading!
To fair and dance parading!
Everywhere as first she must shine,
He was treating her always with tarts and wine;
She began to think herself something fine,
And let her vanity so degrade her
That she even accepted the presents he made her.
There was hugging and smacking, and so it went on--
And lo! and behold! the flower is gone!

_Margery_. Poor thing!

_Lizzy_. Canst any pity for her feel!
When such as we spun at the wheel,
Our mothers kept us in-doors after dark;
While she stood cozy with her spark,
Or sate on the door-bench, or sauntered round,
And never an hour too long they found.
But now her pride may let itself down,
To do penance at church in the sinner's gown!

_Margery_. He'll certainly take her for his wife.

_Lizzy_. He'd be a fool! A spruce young blade
Has room enough to ply his trade.
Besides, he's gone.

_Margery_. Now, that's not fair!

_Lizzy_. If she gets him, her lot'll be hard to bear.
The boys will tear up her wreath, and what's more,
We'll strew chopped straw before her door.

[_Exit._]

_Margery [going home]_. Time was when I, too, instead of bewailing,
Could boldly jeer at a poor girl's failing!
When my scorn could scarcely find expression
At hearing of another's transgression!
How black it seemed! though black as could be,
It never was black enough for me.
I blessed my soul, and felt so high,
And now, myself, in sin I lie!
Yet--all that led me to it, sure,
O God! it was so dear, so pure!

DONJON.[27]

[_In a niche a devotional image of the Mater Dolorosa,
before it pots of flowers._]

MARGERY [_puts fresh flowers into the pots_].
Ah, hear me,
Draw kindly near me,
Mother of sorrows, heal my woe!

Sword-pierced, and stricken
With pangs that sicken,
Thou seest thy son's last life-blood flow!

Thy look--thy sighing---
To God are crying,
Charged with a son's and mother's woe!

Sad mother!
What other
Knows the pangs that eat me to the bone?
What within my poor heart burneth,
How it trembleth, how it yearneth,
Thou canst feel and thou alone!

Go where I