I shall have scarcely time to shed one tear- I am too ready in the same offence: But now farewell. Until we meet again I'd have thee pass thy time in thinking o'er Mary. Indeed 'twas very cruel, Luke. Mary. But why art thou so earnest ? Luke. I shall not soon forget; Heed it not. Thou knowest I have that which makes me sad: One other kiss-which I will keep most sacred, [He re-enters his boat, and pushes off. CALEB So now 'tis past! Poor, widow'd Mary, we shall meet no more! [The river becomes wider as he proceeds, and, at last, expands into a large, circular pool. He rests upon his pole, and looks slowly and cautiously about him.] This is the place. How fitting for a deed Like mine! The high and shelving banks have nursed All eyes from me, and me from all the world. Hath not yet found his way-'tis scarcely twilight, There the huge eddy in its whirling round From chance or choice, who long have lain in secret Leaving no history but vague surmise. I'll find their mystery. [He pushes the boat into the middle of the pool. The scene closes. PART IV. The Interior of CALEB's Cottage. RAYLAND-CALEB. Rayland. Gone hence this half hour, sayst thou? Couldst thou not overtake him? 'Tis of moment What I would speak of. Caleb. He must keep the river To where his road runs o'er it, for the floods My way across, I shall be soon enough, For he has many windings, and the stream Rayland. Hasten, then-your pains Shall not in vain be used. And, lest he feel Unwilling to return, (writing on a leaf of his pocketbook) deliver this. Mary, (singing without, in a melancholy tone.) "So under the wave, and under the wave, Beneath the old willow tree, With the weeds for my pall, in a deep, deep grave, My hiding-place shall be. Rayland. That is a moving voice! Caleb. 'Tis Luke's young wife; 'Tis their first parting, and she feels it sorely, Though for so short a time. Rayland. Pray send her here— I'll talk with her till he returns. (stands meditating.) Rayland. ENTER MARY. So fair! So gentle! Lady (can I call you less?), I've heard that Luke, the fisherman, did wed With one beyond him, but it cannot be Mary. O, sir! I thank the heav'ns You are as wrong in this as when you say Rayland. As thou wilt We will not waste the time in fond dispute. trade. Rayland. 'Tis a bleak place to yield subsistence. Mary. But Luke was labouring for his wife; and then Even the deserts and the floods grew kind. Yes: Rayland, (after a pause.) You said he ne'er was succour'd at the hands Whence nature should have wrung as much-I mean His father's? Mary. I said it not. Sir, I pray you pardon me ; Rayland. But, ne'ertheless, 'tis true; And thou, who art so tender of that father, Wert driven from his mansion destitute. Thou seest I know much. Now, then, confess With other usage, had ask'd no repentance. Mary. You question strangely, sir; but since it takes No leave of truth to answer proudly-Never! Too much, but he we speak of is my husband. Rayland. No: not a jot too much—'Tis a hard life, Your husband's, and laborious by night As well as day? Mary. Oh, often have I watch'd Till the grey dawn hath peep'd into my lattice, And found me lonely still. Rayland. But now 'tis summer; And, as I think, his work by night is only Since you watch'd last? Mary. No longer than last night; But then he went to see a dying friend, |