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"No!" she cried out sharply as if in terror, and the slight figure was shaken by a sudden spasm of trembling. "Oh, Mother, no! Never, never!" With a gesture of infinite pity and tenderness the Mother drew her close, and hid the shame-dyed face upon her bosom, and whispered, with her lips upon the red-brown hair: "My lamb, my dearest, my poor, poor child! It shall be never if you choose, Lynette.
Where wisdom we surprise with shame-dyed lip, While Phoebus' rays she boldly drinks, Where men, like thievish children, nectar sip, And from the spheres e'en Plato sinks To ye to ye, O lonely sister-band, Daughters of destiny, ascend, When o'er the lyre all-gently sweeps my hand, These strains, where bliss and sadness blend.
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