XIX.
Her mother sat silent--too tender, I wis, Of the smile her dead father smiled dying to kiss: But the boy started up pale with tears, passion-wrought-- "O wicked fair sister, the hills utter nought! If he cometh, who told thee?"
Her mother sat silent--too tender, I wis, Of the smile her dead father smiled dying to kiss: But the boy started up pale with tears, passion-wrought-- "O wicked fair sister, the hills utter nought! If he cometh, who told thee?"