Chapter 8 No.8

The chapel's chime fell slow and soft,

And throngs slow-marching to its knoll

From village home and distant croft,

With careful feet and reverent soul

Pressed toward the open door, but oft

Turned curious and expectant eyes

Upon the Manse that stood apart.

There in her quiet, bridal guise

Fair Mildred sat with shrinking heart;

While Philip, bold and over wise,

And knowing naught of woman's ways,

Smiled at her fears, and could not guess

How one so armored in his praise,

And strong in native loveliness,

Could dread to meet his people's gaze.

He could not know her fine alarm

When at his manly side she stood,

And, leaning faintly on his arm-

A dainty slip of womanhood-

Walked forth where every girlish charm

Was scanned with prying gaze and glance,

Among the slowly moving crowd

That, greedy of the precious chance,

Read furtively, but half aloud,

The pages of their new romance.

"A child!" And Mildred caught the word.

"A plaything!" And, another voice:

"Fine feathers, and a Southern bird!"

And still one more; "A parson's choice!"

And trembling Mildred overheard.

These from the careless or the dull-

Gossips at best; at wisest, dolts;

And though her quickened ear might cull

From out their whispered thunderbolts

A "lovely!" and a "beautiful!"

And though sweet mother-faces smiled,

And bows were given with friendly grace,

And many a pleasant little child

Sought sympathy within her face,

Her aching heart was not beguiled.

She did not see-she only felt-

As up the staring aisle she walked-

The critic glances, coldly dealt,

By those who looked, and bent, and talked;

And, even, when at last she knelt

Alone within the pastor's pew,

And prayed for self-forgetfulness

With deep humility, she knew

She gave her figure and her dress

To careful eyes with closer view.