So the Youth of the Town longs for the coming of the morrow.

Who wrote, and sent to her with those sweet red roses from some old-time garden, this, his Lover’s letter, which she still is holding in her left hand, once again just a trifle tremulous?  Who has asked this question of a woman’s heart?  Is he a man strong and noble, whom she does not love, yet does not wish to wound?  Or is it some one less strong, less noble, who has her Love, although he be unworthy of it?

And does Duty bid her make denial, even though it break her loving heart?

Is it Regret, Duty, Love, or What?

But still she gives no answer.  And the Youth of the Town is still hoping, doubting, fearing.

Ah, my sweet, sad-eyed Lady, what will your answer be?

  Sherley Place,
    Easter-tide, 1884.