There she stood: white daisies in her hand,
And her red lips parted as to speak
     With a smile; the blue and sunny air
     Seem'd to stir her floating golden hair,
And to bring a faint blush on her cheek.

Well, so time pass'd on; a year was gone,
And Sir Arthur had been much away.
     Then the news came! I shed many tears
     When I saw the truth of all my fears
Rise before me on that bitter day.

Any one but her I could have borne!
But my lady loved her as her friend.
     Through their childhood and their early youth,
     How she used to count upon the truth
Of this friendship that would never end!

Older, graver than my lady was,
Whose young, gentle heart on her relied,
     She would give advice, and praise, and blame,
     And my lady leant on Margaret's name,
As her dearest comfort, help, and guide.

I had never liked her, and I think
That my lady grew to doubt her too,
     Since her marriage; for she named her less,
     Never saw her, and I used to guess
At some secret wrong I never knew.

That might be or not. But now, to hear
She would come and reign here in her stead,
     With the pomp and splendour of a bride:
     Would no thought reproach her in her pride
With the silent memory of the dead?

So, the day came, and the bells rang out,
And I laid the children's black aside;
     And I held each little trembling hand,
     As I strove to make them understand
They must greet their father's new-made bride.

Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave and stern,
And his lady's eyes might well grow dim,
     When the children shrank in fear away,—
     Little Arthur hid his face, and May
Would not raise her eyes, or speak to him.

When Sir Arthur bade them greet "their mother,"
I was forced to chide, yet proud to hear
     How my little loving May replied,
     With her mother's pretty air of pride,—
"Our dear mother has been dead a year!"

Ah, the lady's tears might well fall fast,
As she kiss'd them, and then turn'd away.
     She might strive to smile or to forget,
     But I think some shadow of regret
Must have risen to blight her wedding-day.

She had some strange touch of self-reproach;
For she used to linger day by day
     By the nursery door, or garden gate,
     With a sad, calm, wistful look, and wait
Watching the three children at their play.

But they always shrank away from her
When she strove to comfort their alarms,
     And their grave cold, silence to beguile:
     Even little Olga's baby-smile
Quiver'd into tears when in her arms.

I could never chide them: for I saw
How their mother's memory grew more deep
     In their hearts. Each night I had to tell
     Stories of her whom I loved so well
When a child, to send them off to sleep.

But Sir Arthur—O, this was too hard!—
He, who had been always stern and sad
     In my lady's time, seem'd to rejoice
     Each day more; and I could hear his voice
Even, sounding younger and more glad.

He might perhaps have blamed them; but his wife
Never fail'd to take the children's part.
     She would stay him with her pleading tone,
     Saying she would strive, and strive alone,
Till she gain'd each little wayward heart.

And she strove indeed, and seem'd to be
Always waiting for their love, in vain;
     Yet, when May had most her mother's look,
     Then the lady's calm, cold accents shook
With some memory of reproachful pain.

Little May would never call her Mother:
So, one day, the lady, bending low,
     Kiss'd her golden curls, and softly said,
     "Sweet one, call me Margaret, instead,—
Your dear mother used to call me so."

She was gentle, kind, and patient too,
Yet in vain: the children held apart.
     Ah, their mother's gentle memory dwelt
     Near them, and her little orphans felt
She had the first claim upon their heart.

So three years pass'd; then the War broke out;
And a rumour seem'd to spread and rise;
     First we guess' d what sorrow must befall,
     Then all doubt fled, for we read it all
In the depths of her despairing eyes.

Yes; Sir Arthur had been call'd away
To that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife,—
     Now he seemed to know with double pain
     The cold, bitter gulf that must remain
To divide his children from his wife.

Nearer came the day he was to sail,
Deeper grew the coming woe and fear,
     When, one night, the children at my knee
     Knelt to say their evening prayer to me;
I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near.

There they knelt with folded hands, and said
Low, soft words in stammering accents sweet;
     In the firelight shone their golden hair
     And white robes: my darlings look'd so fair,
With their little bare and rosy feet!

There he waited till their low "Amen:"
Stopp'd the rosy lips raised for "Good night!"—
     Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near,
     As he bade them stay with him, and hear
Something that would make his heart more light.

Little Olga crept into his arms;
Arthur leant upon his shoulder; May
     Knelt beside him, with her earnest eyes
     Lifted up in patient, calm surprise—
I can almost hear his words to-day.