may dim
(His are so many, many dead)
Seeing that I but comforted
A child--and sent her back to Him!

SUCH ARE THE SOULS IN PURGATORY: ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH

Three days she wandered forth from me,
Then sought me as of old.
"I did not know how dark 'twould be,"
She sobbed, "nor yet how cold.

"And it is chill for me to fare
Who have not long been dead.
If thou wouldst give away thy cloak
I might go comforted."

I would have soothed her on my breast
But that she needs must go.
The dead must journey without rest
Whether they will or no.

But I had kept for love of her
The cloak she wore, the shoes,
And every day I touched the things
She had been wont to use.

All night the dead must hurry on,
They may not ever sleep.
And so I gave away her cloak
That I was fain to keep.

The second time she sought me out
Her eyes were full of need.
"If thou wouldst give away my shoes
Perchance I would not bleed."

I cried to her aloud, "My child,
They are all I have to keep,
To lay my hand upon and touch
At night before I sleep.

"The earth shall keep the body I bore,
And Heaven thy soul. I may not choose.
Let be--I ask a little thing,
That I should keep thy shoes.

"But I will give away my own.
Lord, Lord, wilt Thou not see?
Let Thou her road to Paradise
This way be eased by me."

All night alone by brier and stone
I ran that road unshod,
So I might know instead of her
The pains that lead to God.

When next she came for a brief space
She tarried at my side,
So happy was she in that place,
So glad that she had died.

"The last night that I roamed," she said,
"Some one had gone before.
I followed where those feet had led,
And found it rough no more.

"And then I came to a good place,
So kind, so dear are they
I may not come again," and so
She smiled and went away.

Dear Christ, Who died to save us all,
Who trod the ways so cold and wild,
The love of Mary in thy heart
Did let me ease my child.

She may not leave the place of bliss,
I may not touch her hands and hair,
But every night I touch and kiss
The shoes she used to wear.

THE OPEN DOOR: ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON

O listen for her step when the fire burns hollow
When the low fire whispers and the white ash sinks,
When all about the chamber shadows troop and follow
As drowsier yet the hearth's red watchlight blinks.

While bare black night through empty casements sta