She was gentle, kind, and patient too,
Yet in vain:  the children held apart. 
Ah, their mother’s gentle memory dwelt
Near them, and her little orphans felt
She had the first claim upon their heart.

So three years passed; then the war broke out;
And a rumour seemed to spread and rise;
First we guessed what sorrow must befall,
Then all doubt fled, for we read it all
In the depths of her despairing eyes.

Yes; Sir Arthur had been called away
To that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife,—­
Now he seemed to know with double pain,
The cold, bitter gulf that must remain
To divide his children from his wife.

Nearer came the day he was to sail,
Deeper grew the coming woe and fear,
When, one night, the children at my knee
Knelt to say their evening prayer to me,
I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near.

There they knelt with folded hands, and said
Low, soft words in stammering accents sweet;
In the firelight shone their golden hair
And white robes:  my darlings looked so fair,
With their little bare and rosy feet!

There he waited till their low “Amen;”
Stopped the rosy lips raised for “Good night!”—­
Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near,
As he bade them stay with him, and hear
Something that would make his heart more light.

Little Olga crept into his arms;
Arthur leant upon his shoulder; May
Knelt beside him, with her earnest eyes
Lifted up in patient, calm surprise—­
I can almost hear his words to-day.

“Years ago, my children, years ago,
When your mother was a child, she came
From her northern home, and here she met
Love for love, and comfort for regret,
In one early friend,—­you know her name.

“And this friend—­a few years older—­gave
Such fond care, such love, that day by day
The new home grew happy, joy complete,
Studies easier, and play more sweet,
While all childish sorrows passed away.

“And your mother—­fragile, like my May—­
Leant on this deep love,—­nor leant in vain. 
For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart!)
Gave the sweet, and took the bitter part,—­
Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain.

“Years passed on, and then I saw them first: 
It was hard to say which was most fair,
Your sweet mother’s bright and blushing face,
Or the graver Margaret’s stately grace;
Golden locks, or braided raven hair.

“Then it happened, by a strange, sad fate,
One thought entered into each young soul: 
Joy for one—­if for the other pain;
Loss for one—­if for the other gain: 
One must lose, and one possess the whole.

“And so this—­this—­what they cared for—­came
And belonged to Margaret:  was her own. 
But she laid the gift aside, to take
Pain and sorrow for your mother’s sake,
And none knew it but herself alone.