Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/71

Demanded, "Is he come?"
                  "No; not to-day;
To-morrow," was the answer.
                    So, back she turned,
Lifting her shrivelled finger, with a look
Half-credulous, half-sorrowing, and still
Repeating "aye, to-morrow," homeward went.

'Tis a sad tale. She and her husband led
A life of humble and of honest toil,
Content, though poor. One only son they had
Healthful and bright; and to their eyes he seemed
Exceeding fair. The father was a man
Austere and passionate, and loved his boy,
As fathers often do, with such a pride,
That could not bear the humbling of his faults,
Nor the slow toil to mend them. When he grew
To a tall lad, the mother's readier tact
Discerned that change of character, which meets
With chafing thought the yoke of discipline,
And humored it: but to the sire he seemed
Still as a child, and so he treated him.
    When eighteen summers threw a ripening tinge
O'er his bold brow, the father, at some fault,
Born more of carelessness than turpitude,
In anger struck him, bidding him go forth
From his own door. The youth, who shared too well
The fiery temper of his father's blood,
Vowed to return no more.