I am myself but a vile link Amid life’s weary chain, But I have spoken hallow’d words, Oh, do not say in vain!

Will the young maiden, when her tears, Alone in moonlight shine, Tears for the absent and the loved, Murmur⁠—

she wrote without a stop as Bartholomew and Basket grunted and groaned about the room, mending the fire, picking up the muffins.

Again she dipped her pen and off it went: