It appeared that same Saturday, and was the
beginning of Herminia's most valuable connection.
But even after she had posted it the distracted mother could not
pause or rest. Dolly tossed and turned in her sleep, and Herminia
sat watching her. She pined for sympathy. Vague ancestral
yearnings, gathering head within her, made her long to pray,--if
only there had been anybody or anything to pray to. She clasped
her bloodless hands in an agony of solitude. Oh, for a friend to
comfort! At last her overwrought feelings found vent in verse.
She seized a pencil from her desk, and sitting by Dolly's side,
wrote down her heart-felt prayer, as it came to her that moment,--
A crowned Caprice is god of the world:
On his stony breast are his white wings furled.
No ear to hearken, no eye to see,
No heart to feel for a man hath he.
But his pitiless hands are swift to smite,
And his mute lips utter one word of might
In the clash of gentler souls and rougher--
'Wrong must thou do, or wrong must suffer.'
Then grant, O dumb, blind god, at least that we
Rather the sufferers than the doers be.
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