EPILOGUE 



laid a sweet white rose in the little folded 

 arms. 



Then a real servant of God broke silence, 

 and told how many of the noblest song-sing- 

 ers of this world had paid tribute to lives 

 just like hers, Byron, Scott, Browning, 

 as well as later poets without number, whose 

 hearts had been moved by the undying love 

 and gratitude of some one of her humble 

 race, when the friends of their own had 

 turned false or cold. 



He closed with his own tender lines on her 

 faithful life, as they laid her sleeping form to 

 rest by the watching Hebe of the fountain, 

 by the heart-shaped lily-pond, in the very 

 spot where she had run so often with joyous 

 feet to pose for a picture. 



A fair-haired child stood there and wept 

 with them, and many a day, from that hour 

 to this, she has gathered the sweet wild 

 flowers and laid the last pale roses of sum- 

 mer on that little grave. 



From that day to this, that loving pres- 

 ence speaks to one heart through all God's 

 gentle creatures; through all their soft, dark 

 eyes look forth eyes softer, brighter still; 

 every glad bird song sings to her of the great 

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