A mouth for mastery and manful work,
A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes,
A brow the harbor of grave thought, and hair
Saxon of hue.  She conned; then blushed again,
Remembering now, when she had looked on him,
The sudden radiance of her husband’s smile.

But Muriel did not send the picture back;
She kept it; while her beauty and her babe
Flourished together, and in health and peace
She lived.

Her husband never said to her,
“Love, are you happy?” never said to her,
“Sweet, do you love me?” and at first, whene’er
They rode together in the lanes, and paused,
Stopping their horses, when the day was hot,
In the shadow of a tree, to watch the clouds,
Ruffled in drifting on the jagged rocks
That topped the mountains,—­when she sat by him,
Withdrawn at even while the summer stars
Came starting out of nothing, as new made,
She felt a little trouble, and a wish
That he would yet keep silence, and he did. 
That one reserve he would not touch, but still
Respected.

Muriel grew more brave in time,
And talked at ease, and felt disquietude
Fade.  And another child was given to her.

“Now we shall do,” the old great-grandsire cried,
“For this is the right sort, a boy.”  “Fie, fie,”
Quoth the good dame; “but never heed you, love,
He thinks them both as right as right can be.”

But Laurance went from home, ere yet the boy
Was three weeks old.  It fretted him to go,
But still he said, “I must”:  and she was left
Much with the kindly dame, whose gentle care
Was like a mother’s; and the two could talk
Sweetly, for all the difference in their years.

But unaware, the wife betrayed a wish
That she had known why Laurance left her thus. 
“Ay, love,” the dame made answer; “for he said,
‘Goody,’ before he left, ’if Muriel ask
No question, tell her naught; but if she let
Any disquietude appear to you,
Say what you know.’” “What?” Muriel said, and laughed,
“I ask, then.”

“Child, it is that your old love,
Some two months past, was here.  Nay, never start: 
He’s gone.  He came, our Laurance met him near;
He said that he was going over seas,
’And might I see your wife this only once,
And get her pardon?’”

“Mercy!” Muriel cried,
“But Laurance does not wish it?”

“Nay, now, nay,”
Quoth the good dame. 
“I cannot,” Muriel cried;
“He does not, surely, think I should.”

“Not he,”
The kind old woman said, right soothingly. 
“Does not he ever know, love, ever do
What you like best?”

And Muriel, trembling yet,
Agreed.  “I heard him say,” the dame went on,
“For I was with him when they met that day,
‘It would not be agreeable to my wife.’”