Chapter 10 Return Of The Prodigal

My heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarled

With gloating on the ills I cannot cure.

ELLIOTT.

Then guard and shield her innocence,

Let her not fall like me;

'Twere better, oh! a thousand times,

She in her grave should be.

The Outcast.

Despair settled down like a heavy cloud; and now and then, through the dead calm of suf