But, drawing the curtains on darkness and night! 
She sat down to spin by the cheery fire-light,
    While before it, so cozy and warm,
Slept the kitten,—­a snowy white ball of content—­
And her wheel, with its humming activity, lent
    To the hour, a picturesque charm.

No scene more enchanting could artist dream know,
Than this peaceful, calm spot, in the ruby-red glow
    Of the pine knots aflame on the hearth;
But Dorothy thought, “Were he but there with me
And loved me as I love, a desert would be
    The happiest place upon earth.”

“Oh were he but poor, and forsaken;” she sighed,
“He then a poor maiden might seek for his bride,
    But his love will some great lady crown;
Since all is so hopeless, dear Father above
Oh help me to cast out my unreturned love! 
    And forget the proud Valentine Brown.”

In his elegant library, sat Valentine Brown,
The argand burned brightly, the rich curtains down,
    Luxurious home of repose;—­
Yet his handsome face saddened, his heart was oppressed;
He sighed, and his spirit was full of unrest,
    For his love he should never disclose.

He had roamed over Europe, and Countesses fair
Had graciously smiled on the great millionaire. 
    Yet his heart had turned coldly away;
“From her childhood, I’ve loved her, sweet Dorothy Moore,”
Just then the latch clicked—­through the half opened door
    Crept humbly, poor Archibald Gray.

“I want you!” he whispered; “I promised her, come!”
And Valentine followed, till reaching the home
    Where Dorothy spun by the hearth;
And when he had entered with Archibald Gray
And courteously waited, commands to obey,
    Knew no lovelier picture on earth.

But the tact which had piloted Valentine there
Deserted poor Archie; then Dorothy fair,
    Blushing deeply, yet smilingly said: 
“Why, Archibald, why did you leave us I pray? 
You said till to-morrow at noon, you would stay,
    And in less than an hour you had fled.”

The memory of Archibald took up the clew
Thus kindly supplied, and eager he grew;
    “Yes, yes; Archie promised he would;
I have brought you a valentine, Valentine Brown,”
(Here he smoothed his gray beard, and looked helplessly down),
    “He’s so good to poor Archie, so good!”

The three stood in silence, two wondering no doubt
How this intricate problem would ever turn out,
    And Valentine, thoughtful and kind,—­
Felt pity for Archie, who meant for the best;
And for Dorothy—­flushing like clouds in the west
    And fearing he thought it designed.

He looked at the maiden—­modest and sweet;
At her lovely blue eyes, her peach-blossom cheek
    And sighed for his youth which had fled;
“She never could love me, good Archibald Gray,
Her beauty and youthfulness stand in the way,
    Just look at my frost-covered head.”