The Countess and the Child

With no misgiving thought or doubt
Her fond arms clasped his child about
In the full mantle of her love;
For who so loves the darling flowers
Must love the bloom of human bowers,
The types of brightest things above.
One day--one sunny winter day--
She pressed it to her tender breast;
The sunshine of its head there lay
As pillowed on its native rest.

--Thomas Buchanan Reed.

Lady Hurstmonceux and Hannah Worth sat opposite each other in silence.
The lady with her eyes fixed thoughtfully on the floor--Hannah waiting
for the visitor to disclose the object of her visit.

Reuben Gray had retired to the farthest end of the room, in delicate
respect to the lady; but finding that she continued silent, it at last
dawned upon his mind that his absence was desirable. So he came forward
with awkward courtesy, saying: "Hannah, I think the lady would like to be alone with you; so I will bid
you good-day, and come again to-morrow."

"Very well, Reuben," was all that the woman could answer in the presence
of a third person.

And after shaking Hannah's hand, and pulling his forelock to the
visitor, the man went away.

As soon as he was clearly gone the countess turned to the weaver and
said: "Hannah--your name is Hannah, I think?"

"Yes, madam."

"Well, Hannah, I have come to thank you for your tender care of my son,
and to relieve you of him!" said the countess.