A fluttering bevy left the gate
With hurried steps, and sped away;
And then a coach with drooping freight,
Wrapped in its film of dusty gray,
Stopped; and the pastor and his mate
Stepped forth, and passed the waiting door,
And closed it on the gazing street.
“Oh Philip!” She could say no more.
“Oh Mildred! You're at home, my sweet,—
The old life closed: the new before!”
“Dinah, the mistress!” And the maid,
Grown motherly with household care
And loving service, and arrayed
In homely neatness, took the pair
Of small gloved hands held out, and paid
Her low obeisance; then — “this way!”
And when she brought her forth at last,
To him who grudged the long delay,
He found the soil of travel cast,
And Mildred fresh and fair as May.