Through the brown leaves
      Gold stars push;
    A mist of green
      Veils the bush. 
    Here a twitter,
      There a croak! 
    They are coming—­
      The spring-folk!
  Heart, be not dumb;
  Let the live things come.

    Through the beach
      The winds go,
    With a long speech,
      Loud and slow. 
    The grass is fine,
      And soft to lie in;
    The sun doth shine
      The blue sky in.
  Heart, be alive;
  Let the new things thrive.

    Round again! 
      Here now—­
    A rimy fruit
      On a bare bough! 
    There the winter
      And the snow;
    And a sighing ever
      To fall and go!
  Heart, thy hour shall be;
  Thy dead will comfort thee.

Faber was still folded in the atmosphere of the song when, from the curate’s door, he arrived at the minister’s, resolved to make that morning a certain disclosure—­one he would gladly have avoided, but felt bound in honor to make.  The minister grew pale as he listened, but held his peace.  Not until the point came at which he found himself personally concerned, did he utter a syllable.

I will in my own words give the substance of the doctor’s communication, stating the facts a little more fairly to him than his pride would allow him to put them in his narrative.

Paul Faber was a student of St. Bartholomew’s, and during some time held there the office of assistant house-surgeon.  Soon after his appointment, he being then three and twenty, a young woman was taken into one of the wards, in whom he gradually grew much interested.  Her complaint caused her much suffering, but was more tedious than dangerous.

Attracted by her sweet looks, but more by her patience, and the gratitude with which she received the attention shown her, he began to talk to her a little, especially during a slight operation that had to be not unfrequently performed.  Then he came to giving her books to read, and was often charmed with the truth and simplicity of the remarks she would make.  She had been earning her living as a clerk, had no friends in London, and therefore no place to betake herself to in her illness but the hospital.  The day she left it, in the simplicity of her heart, and with much timidity, she gave him a chain she had made for him of her hair.  On the ground of supplementary attention, partly desirable, partly a pretext, but unassociated with any evil intent, he visited her after in her lodging.  The joy of her face, the light of her eyes when he appeared, was enchanting to him.  She pleased every gentle element of his nature; her worship flattered him, her confidence bewitched him.  His feelings toward her were such that he never doubted he was her friend.  He did her no end of kindness; taught her much; gave her good advice as to her behavior, and the dangers she was in; would have protected her from every enemy,