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 ‘Twenty years!’ said Goodman Garvin, speaking sadly, under breath,
And his gray head slowly shaking, as one who speaks of death.
The goodwife dropped her needles: “It is twenty years to-day,
Since the Indians fell on Saco, and stole our child away.”
Then they sank into the silence, for each knew the other's thought,
Of a great and common sorrow, and words were needed not.
‘Who knocks?’ cried Goodman Garvin. The door was open thrown;
On two strangers, man and maiden, cloaked and furred, the fire-light shone.
One with courteous gesture lifted the bear-skin from his head;
‘Lives here Elkanah Garvin?’ ‘I am he,’ the goodman said.
‘Sit ye down, and dry and warm ye, for the night is chill with rain.’
And the goodwife drew the settle, and stirred the fire amain.
The maid unclasped her cloak-hood, the firelight glistened fair
In her large, moist eyes, and over soft folds of dark brown hair.
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