Thus I read and mused in the soft summer fog, and the first I knew the cars had stopped, I was standing on the platform, and Coventry and his knight were—­where?  Wandering up and down somewhere among the Berkshire hills.  At some junction of roads, I suppose, I left them on the cushion, for I have never beheld them since.  Tell me, O ye daughters of Berkshire, have you seen them,—­a princely pair, sore weary in your mountain-land, but regal still, through all their travel-stain?  I pray you, entreat them hospitably, for their mission is “not of an age, but for all time.”

GIVE.

“The vine shall give her fruit, and the ground shall give her increase, and the heavens shall give their dew.”

  The fire of Freedom burns,
    March to her altar now: 
  Bear on the sacred urns
    Where all her sons must bow.

  Woman of nerve and thought,
    Bring in the urn your power! 
  By you is manhood taught
    To meet this supreme hour.

  Come with your sunlit life,
    Maiden of gentle eye! 
  Bring to the gloom of strife
    Light by which heroes die.

  Give, rich men, proud and free,
    Your children’s costliest gem! 
  For Liberty shall be
    Your heritage to them.

  O friend, with heavy urn,
    What offering bear you on? 
  The figure did not turn;
    I heard a voice, “My son.”

  The fire of Freedom burns,
    Her flame shall reach the heaven: 
  Heap up our sacred urns,
    Though life for life be given!

ONLY AN IRISH GIRL!

“Oh, it’s only an Irish girl!”

I flamed into a wrath far too intense for restraint.  My whole soul rose up and cried out against the Deacon’s wife.  I answered,—­

“True.  A small thing!  But are lies and murder small things, Mrs. Adams?  Murderers, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie, are to be left outside of the heavenly city.  And, Mrs. Adams, suppose it should appear that a woman of high respectability, moving in the best society, and most excellent housekeeper, has both those two tickets for hell?  Do you remember the others that make up that horrible company in the last chapter of Revelation?  Mrs. Adams, the girl is DEAD!”

The Deacon’s wife’s hard face had blazed instantly into passionate scarlet.  But I cared not for her, nor for man nor woman.  For the words said themselves, and thrilled and sounded fearful to me also; they hurt me; they burnt from my tongue as melted iron might; and, scarcely knowing it, I rose up and emphasized with my forefinger.  And her face, at those last four words, turned stony and whity-gray, like a corpse.  I thought she would die.  Oh, it was awful to think so, and to feel that she deserved it!  For I did.  I do now.  For, reason as I will, I cannot help feeling as if a tinge of the poor helpless child’s blood was upon my own garments.  I do well to be angry.  It is not that I desire any personal revenge.  But I have a feeling,—­not pleasure, it is almost all pity and pain,—­but yet a feeling that sudden death or lingering death would be small satisfaction of justice upon her for what she rendered to another.