REUBEN
That falter’d. Brightly still the dwelling shone,
And sweetly smell’d, with country cleanliness.
But at a cost now; and the frugal meals,
For one partaker all too plentiful,
Gradually later grew, the evening Psalms
Earlier—till, once, the low and quavering voice
Broke to a sob of pain. In one long look,
Silent, set one on either side the hearth,
That night they faced each other and the truth.
Mercy was ailing, and all things were changed.
Now to take long’d-for action, yet not rouse
Fear in the other, was the care of each:
And by degrees, by cautious heedful steps,
Carefully hidden, perfectly perceiv’d,
They dared at last their common goal to touch,
And speak of doctor’s help—still furtively;
“To make ye eat a bit more,” Reuben said,
Concealing how the each-day-slower step,
Thinn’d face, and hid, unhideable pain had long
Wrung him with vague foreboding. “Nay, to make
My temper sweeter,” Mercy said, and smiled;
No word on her white lips of what hot wrath
Now gall’d implacably her days and nights,
Made toil a penance, rest a torture, stole
The savour out of prayer, and with dark dread
Wielding the awful power of the flesh
O’ershrouded all her circumstance of life.
Next day they took the village road. It was
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