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 With a vague remorse atoning for her greed and long abuse,
By care no longer heeded and pity too late for use.
Up the stairs of the garret softly the son of the mistress stepped,
Leaned over the head-board, covering his face with his hands, and wept.
Outspake the mother, who watched him sharply, with brow a-frown:
‘What! love you the Papist, the beggar, the charge of the town?’
“Be she Papist or beggar who lies here, I know and God knows
I love her, and fain would go with her wherever she goes!
“O mother! that sweet face came pleading, for love so athirst.
You saw but the town-charge; I knew her God's angel at first.”
Shaking her gray'head, the mistress hushed down a bitter cry;
And awed by the silence and shadow of death drawing nigh,
She murmured a psalm of the Bible; but closer the young girl pressed,
With the last of her life in her fingers, the cross to her breast.
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