In her fair hand. 
                  And he, not able yet
To force himself away, and never more
Behold her, gathered blossom, primrose flowers,
And wild anemone, for many a clump
Grew all about him, and the hazel rods
Were nodding with their catkins.  But he heard
The stopping train, and felt that he must go;
His time was come.  There was nought else to do
Or hope for.  With the blossom he drew near
And would have had her take it from his hand;
But she, half lost in thought, held out her own,
And then remembering him and his long love,
She said, “I thank you; pray you now forget,
Forget me, Laurance,” and her lovely eyes
Softened; but he was dumb, till through the trees
Suddenly broke upon their quietude
The woman and her child.  And Muriel said,
“What will you?” She made answer quick and keen,
“Your name, my lady; ’tis your name I want,
Tell me your name.”  Not startled, not displeased,
But with a musing sweetness on her mouth,
As if considering in how short a while
It would be changed, she lifted up her face
And gave it, and the little child drew near
And pulled her gown, and prayed her for the flowers. 
Then Laurance, not content to leave them so,
Nor yet to wait the coming lover, spoke,—­
“Your errand with this lady?”—­“And your right
To ask it?” she broke out with sudden heat
And passion:  “What is that to you!  Poor child! 
Madam!” And Muriel lifted up her face
And looked,—­they looked into each other’s eyes.

“That man who comes,” the clear-voiced woman cried,
“That man with whom you think to wed so soon,
You must not heed him.  What! the world is full
Of men, and some are good, and most, God knows,
Better than he,—­that I should say it!—­far
Better.”  And down her face the large tears ran,
And Muriel’s wild dilated eyes looked up,
Taking a terrible meaning from her words;
And Laurance stared about him half in doubt
If this were real, for all things were so blithe,
And soft air tossed the little flowers about;
The child was singing, and the blackbirds piped,
Glad in fair sunshine.  And the women both
Were quiet, gazing in each other’s eyes.

He found his voice, and spoke:  “This is not well,
Though whom you speak of should have done you wrong;
A man that could desert and plan to wed
Will not his purpose yield to God and right,
Only to law.  You, whom I pity so much,
If you be come this day to urge a claim,
You will not tell me that your claim will hold;
’Tis only, if I read aright, the old,
Sorrowful, hateful story!”
                           Muriel sighed,
With a dull patience that he marvelled at,
“Be plain with me.  I know not what to think,
Unless you are his wife.  Are you his wife? 
Be plain with me.”  And all too quietly,
With running down of tears, the answer came,
“Ay, madam, ay! the worse for him and me.”