She
was a Spanish woman--a lady. The father died aboard Captain Blaise's
ship. He was an American who had married abroad without consulting his
father, and the old gentleman made such a fuss about it that the young
man had stayed away--intended to remain away and renounce his heritage;
but at last the father had sent for him, and he was then on his way
home. But you should have heard Captain Blaise tell it. He made us feel
that mother's love for her baby, that mother who was dead before he
picked her up, and made us feel, too, what a man the father was. What an
actor he is! I tried not to cry, but I did. But let me see--what have
you there?"
I showed her some things. She picked up the nearest and read it aloud:
"I was walking down the glen--
O my heart!--on a summer's day.
He passed me by, my gentleman--
Would I had never seen the day!
"True love can neither hate nor scorn,
And ne'er will true love pass away.
And his hair was silk as tasselled corn,
My heart alack--that summer's day!
"Oh, he wore plumes in his broad hat
And jewelled buckles on his shoon,
And O, the sparkle in his eye!
And yet his love could die so soon!"
"H-m. Suggests satin breeches and hair-powder, men who could navigate a
ball-room floor more safely than the Trades, doesn't it? Wherever did
you get such notions?"
I showed her a volume, one of Captain Blaise's, an anthology of the
Elizabethan and Restoration poets.
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