A WOMAN'S FANCY
31
So often did they call her thuswise
Mistakenly, by that man's name,
So much did they declare about him,
That his past form and fame
Grew on her, till she pitied his sorrow
As if she truly had been the cause—
Yea, his deserter; and came to wonder
What mould of man he was.
"Tell me my history!" would exclaim she;
"Our history," she said mournfully.
"But you know, surely, Ma'am?” they would answer,
Much in perplexity.
Curious, she crept to his grave one evening,
And a second time in the dusk of the morrow;
Then a third time, with crescent emotion
Like a bereaved wife's sorrow.
No gravestone rose by the rounded hillock;
—"I marvel why this is?" she said.
—"He had no kindred, Ma'am, but you near."
—She set a stone at his head.
