human
Puir Mary Lee --that old Scotch ballad, written I know not in what generation nor by what hand? Mary had been ill-used--probably in being made to believe that truth which was falsehood. She is not complaining, but she is sitting alone in the snowstorm, and you hear her thoughts. They are not the thoughts of a model heroine under her circumstances, but they are those of a deeply-feeling, strongly-resentful peasant-girl. Anguish has driven her from the ingle-nook of home to the white-shrouded and icy hills. Crouched under the
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she recalls every image of horror--
human
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human
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,
human
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She hates these, but