I never sahe man whom you describe.

    MARIA.

    tis strange! he spake of you familiarly

    As mine and Alberts common Foster-mother.

    FOStER-MOthER.

    Nohe man, whoeer he be,

    t joined your names  lady,

    As often as I times

    tle ones and at eve

    On each side of my chair, and make me learn

    All you  in to talk

    In gentle po you--

    tis more like o come t _has_ been.

    MARIA.

    O my dear Motrange man  me

    troubled he moon

    Breeds in t it,

    till lost in in eye

    S t entrance, Mother!

    FOStER-MOthER.

    Can no one  is a perilous tale!

    MARIA.

    No one.

    FOStER-MOthER

    My old it me,

    Poor old Leoni!--Angels rest his soul!

    he was a woodman, and could fell and saw

    ity arm. You kno huge round beam

    he old chapel?

    Beneat tree,  ree

    in mosses, lined

    itle-beards, and such small locks of wool

    As  him home,

    And reared  t.

    And so tty boy,

    A pretty boy, but most unteachable--

    And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead,

    But knees,

    And wled, as he were a bird himself:

    And all tumn twas his only play

    to get to plant them

    iter, on tumps of trees.

    A Friar, whe wood,

    A grey-tle boy,

    taught him,

    e  time,

    Lived c t or tle.

    So h.

    But Och!--he read, and read, and read,

    till urned--and ere ieth year