So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud

And struggled hard.  The wreath of flowers fell
At Dora’s feet.  She bow’d upon her hands,
And the boy’s cry came to her from the field
More and more distant.  She bow’d down her head,
Remembering the day when first she came,
And all the things that had been.  She bow’d down
And wept in secret; and the reapers reap’d,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

    Then Dora went to Mary’s house, and stood

Upon the threshold.  Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora.  She broke out in praise
To God, that help’d her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, “My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you: 
He says that he will never see me more.” 
Then answer’d Mary, “This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
And I will have my boy, and bring him home,
And I will beg of him to take thee back;
But if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,
And work for William’s child, until he grows
Of age to help us.”

                         So the women kiss’d
     Each other, and set out, and reach’d the farm. 
     The door was off the latch:  they peep’d and saw
     The boy set up betwixt his grandsire’s knees,
     Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,
     And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,
     Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched out
     And babbled for the golden seal that hung
     From Allan’s watch, and sparkled by the fire. 
     Then they came in; but when the boy beheld
     His mother he cried out to come to her: 
     And Allan set him down, and Mary said:—­

         “O Father!—­if you let me call you so—­
     I never came a-begging for myself,
     Or William, or this child; but now I come
     For Dora:  take her back; she loves you well. 
     O Sir, when William died, he died at peace
     With all men; for I ask’d him, and he said,
     He could not ever rue his marrying me—­
     I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said
     That he was wrong to cross his father thus: 
     ‘God bless him!’ he said, ’and may he never know
     The troubles I have gone thro’!’ Then he turn’d
     His face and pass’d—­unhappy that I am! 
     But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you
     Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight
     His father’s memory; and take Dora back,
     And let all this be as it was before.”

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face
By Mary.  There was silence in the room;
And all at once the old man burst in sobs:—­

    “I have been to blame—­to blame.  I have kill’d my son. 

I have kill’d him—­but I loved him—­my dear son. 
May God forgive me!—­I have been to blame. 
Kiss me, my children.”