Her impatient attendant scolds her, tells her I am not in mourning, bids her look again, tries to rouse her.

‘You have seen my son, sir,’ says the elder lady. ‘Are you reconciled?’

Looking fixedly at me, she puts her hand to her forehead, and moans. Suddenly, she cries, in a terrible voice, ‘Rosa, come to me. He is dead!’ Rosa kneeling at her feet, by turns caresses her, and quarrels with her; now fiercely telling her, ‘I loved him better than you ever did!’ — now soothing her to sleep on her breast, like a sick child.

Thus I leave them; thus I always find them; thus they wear their time away, from year to year.

What ship comes sailing home from India, and what