The Poem
“I’ve shot my arrow o’er the house And hurt my brother.”
When Miss Belinda first saw Paula, she did not, like her sister, remark upon the elegance of her appearance, the growth of her beauty, or the evidences of increased refinement in the expression of her countenance and the carriage of her form, but with her usual penetration noted simply, the sadness in her eye and the tremulous motion of her lip.
“You had then become fond of your cousin?” queried she with characteristic bluntness.
Paula not understanding the motive of this remark, questioned her with a look.
“Young faces do not grow pale or bright eyes become troubled without a cause. Grief for your cousin might explain it, but if you have suffered from no grief—”
“My cousin was very kind to me,” hurriedly interrupted Paula. “Her death was very sudden and very heartrending.”
“So it was;” returned Miss Belinda, “and I expected to see you look worn and sad but not restless and feverish. You have a living grief, Paula, what is it?”
The young girl started and looked down. For the first time in her life she wished to avoid that penetrating glance. “If I have, I cannot talk of it,” she murmured. “I have experienced so much this past week; my