The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories

Along the broken and winding way
Between the heath and the boulders gray;
Through lonely pastures that led him down
To oaken woods in their autumn brown;
And o'er the stones of a rippling stream,
The hermit passed, like one in a dream!
As though the vision, had made him strong:
He hardly knew that the way was long.

'T was almost noon when he came in sight
Of the little farmhouse, low and white:
A sheltered lane by the orchard led,
Where mountain ash, with its berries red,
Rose high above him; and brambles, grown
All over the rough, low wall of stone,
And tangled brier with thorny spray,
And feathered clematis, edged the way.
Then, turning shortly, a view he caught
Of both the women for whom he sought.

One, spinning, sat by the open door;
Her spindle danced on the worn stone floor.
The other, just from the forest come,
Had brought a bundle of branches home,
And spread them now in the sun to dry;
But both looked up as the saint drew nigh.
Then, on a sudden, the spindle stopped,
The branches all on the grass were dropped.
He heard them joyfully both exclaim,
"The Saint! The hermit!" And forth they came
To bid him welcome, and made request
That he would enter their house to rest.

But when a blessing they both implored,
He had not courage to speak the word.
The only blessing his lips let fall
Was this: "May the good Lord bless us all,
And keep our hearts in His peace divine!"
With hand uplifted, he made the sign,
Then entered in (to their joy complete!)
And willingly took the offered seat.

And soon before him a meal was spread,
Of chestnuts, of goat's milk cheese, and bread;
While one with her pitcher went to bring
Some water fresh from the ice-cold spring.

He could not taste of the food prepared
Till he his errand to both declared.
Said he: "My friends, I have come to-day
With something grave on my mind to say,
And more to hear; and I pray you now
To answer truly, and not allow
A feeling, whether of pride or shame,
Or any shrinking from praise or blame,
To change the answer you both may give,
Of what you are and of how you live."

Then she with distaff still at her side,
Of speech more ready, at once replied.
In years the elder, but not in face,
She kept a little of youthful grace:
The dark eyes under her snow-white hair
Were keen and clear as the autumn air!

"We are but what we appear to be:
Two toiling women, as you may see!
And neither so young nor strong as when
In field and forest we helped the men.
We now have only the lesser care,
To keep the house, and the meals prepare,
And other labours of small account,
Yet something worth in the week's amount.
But in our youth, and a lifetime through,
We laboured, much as the others do!
Through storm and sunshine we still have tried
To do our best by our husbands' side.
And keep their hearts and our own at rest
When sickness came or when want oppressed.
For even famine our house assailed
That year when the corn and chestnuts failed.
And once – that winter ten years ago —
Our house was buried beneath the snow,
And ere it melted and light returned,
The very benches for warmth we burned!
Nor is there want, in our busy hive,
Of children keeping the house alive:
For she has seven, and I have nine;
But three of hers and the first of mine
Are safe with Jesus, – more happy they!
Two more have married and gone away.
My son's young wife, with her infant small,
Make up the household – fourteen in all."

"In this," he said, "there is much to praise:
In humble service you pass your days,
And spend your life for your children's needs.
But tell me now of the pious deeds
(For such there are) that you seek to hide,