And as she watched her down the street,
  With brow grown bright with sunny thought,
  And heart o’erfilled with something sweet,
  She knew the vagrant child had brought
  The blessing of the Paraclete.

  She turned from out the blazing noon,
  And sought her chamber’s quiet shade,
  Like one who had received a boon
  She might not show, but which essayed
  Expression in a happy croon.

  And then, outleaping from the mesh
  Of Memory’s net, like bird or bee,
  There thrilled her spirit and her flesh
  This old half-song, half-rhapsody,
  That sang, or said itself, afresh: 

  “Poor little wafer of silver! 
  More precious to me than its cost! 
  It was worn of both image and legend,
  But priceless because it was lost. 
  My chamber I carefully swept;
  I hunted, and wondered, and wept;
  And I found it at last with a cry: 
  “Oh dear little jewel!” said I;
  And I washed it with tears all the day;
  Then I kissed it, and put it away.

  “Poor little lamb of the sheepfold! 
  Unlovely and feeble it grew;
  But it wandered away to the mountains,
  And was fairer the further it flew. 
  I followed with hurrying feet
  At the call of its pitiful bleat,
  And precious, with wonderful charms,
  I caught it at last in my arms,
  And bore it far back to its keep,
  And kissed it and put it to sleep.

  “Poor little vagrant from Heaven! 
  It wandered away from the fold,
  And its weakness and danger endowed it
  With value more precious than gold. 
  Oh happy the day when it came,
  And my heart learned its beautiful name! 
  Oh happy the hour when I fed
  This waif of the angels with bread! 
  And the lamb that the Shepherd had missed
  Was sheltered and nourished and kissed!”

  XVII.

  To Philip, Mildred was a child,
  Or a fair angel, to be kept
  From all things earthly undenied,
  One who upon his bosom slept,
  And only waked to be beguiled

  From loneliness and homely care
  By love’s unfailing ministry;
  No toil of his was she to share,
  No burden hers, that should not be
  Left for his stronger hands to bear.

  His love enwrapped her as a robe,
  Which seemed, by its supernal charm,
  To shield from every poisoned probe
  Of earthly pain and earthly harm
  This one choice creature of the globe.

  The love he bore her lifted him
  Into a bright, sweet atmosphere
  That filled with beauty to the brim
  The world beneath him, far and near,
  And stained the clouds that draped its rim.

  Toil was not toil, except in name;
  Care was not care, but only means
  To feed with holy oil the flame
  That warmed her soul, and lit the scenes
  Through which her figure went and came.