  BY MARGARET HOUSTON. (From Ainslee's Magazine.) "Let go my hand!" (A start of quick surprise.) "How could you dare?" (A flash of angry eyes.) And yet her hand in mine all passive lies. "How rude you are!" (The rose-blush fully blown.) "I trusted you!" ('Twould melt a heart of stone.) And yet the little hand rests in mine own! Oh, dainty Meriel—little April day! However warmly pouting lips cry Nay, That little hand shall rest in mine—alway! |
|
