V.

"Do not, for the world, awake her! 'Twere her death-knell to awake her!" Urged the old and careful nursewife. "Let me look but for a moment-- Gaze but for one little moment!" 'Twas the voice of Charles that pleaded: Softly, then, he drew the curtain, Gently, fearful, drew the curtain-- "Charles!--dear Charles!" a faint voice murmured, In a tone so weak and lowly, Sweetly weak and soul-subduing. "Blanche!--my sweet one!" gasp'd the husband, "Dost thou know me?--God, I thank thee!" Then he threw his arms around her, And, amidst a shower of kisses, Truest, purest, grateful kisses, Drew the loved one to his bosom: And the babe that nestled near her Covered he with warm caresses. Reason, like a golden sunbeam On a lily-cup, had lightened Her sweet soul so dark and turbid-- For three years so darkly turbid; Three long years so dark and turbid. "Charles, my dream has been a sad one," Spake she, like expiring music, Shadowed with a mournful sadness. "I have dreamt they stole my baby, Buried my dear, darling infant!" Then she took the babe and kiss'd it, Presst it to her snowy bosom; And, with voice low, soft, and grateful, Murmured, "Charles, I am _so_ happy! Do not weep--I'm _very_ happy!"