The Sisters. Two sisters sit by the embers, Watching the fire burn low : It is of me they are thinking In their hearts, I know. And scarce a word is spoken, As side by side they sit : And if they speak, there is little Of what they think in it. For they love me, both, past telling ; And that they think upon. Pity they both should love me, Who can love but one. Love is a blessing, surely ; It should make us glad : Pity, with so much loving, Three should be so sad. The little heart is breaking To lean upon my breast : She is but a child, the youngest : I love the eldest best. But if she love me strongly, She cannot bear to see The life of her sweet sister Pining away for me. She, with her noble nature— Ever in fear am I Lest she should forsake me, That the other may not die. None can love like we do ; Gladness were most fit ; But ever so little gladness We win out of it. For I cannot speak of loving, Or look her in the face, Lest I should cause heart-sorrow In the fireside place. And if the child die sudden, And only leave us two ; And learn to love in heaven As the angels do— Sicken and die quite sudden, And lie in a winding-sheet ; And I to the grave, chief-mourner Carry the cold corpse-feet— How should I make the living Ever be comforted, If for her the sister Lie with homeless head ? Never the light shine on me If I know what to do. This is a sad affair, love. God help me and you ! T. A.