For an instant there was dead silence between them, and then Mrs. Rosewarne, with a great sadness in her voice, despite its studied calmness, said, “Mr. Trelyon, we need say nothing of what has occurred.  There are some things that are best not spoken of.  But I can trust to you not to seek to see Wenna before you leave here.  She is quite recovered—­only a little nervous, you know, and frightened.  To-morrow she will be quite well again.”

“You will bid her good-bye for me?” he said.

But for the tight clasp of the hand between these two, it was an ordinary parting.  He put on his hat and went out.  Perhaps it was the cold sea-air that made his face so pale.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

LA MADONNA DELLA SEDIA.

A TRADITION.

  Raphael.  Still in this free, clear air that vision floats
  Before my brain.  I may nor banish it
  Nor grasp it.  ’Tis too fine, too spirit-like,
  To offer as the type of motherhood. 
  Color and blood and life and truth it lacks. 
  Gods! can it be that our imaginings
  Excel your handiwork?  Must life seem dull,
  Must earth seem barren and unbeautiful,
  For ever unto him who can create
  This rarer world of delicate phantasy? 
  I lift mine eyes, and nothing real responds
  To those ideal forms.  God pardon me! 
  There in the everlasting sunshine sits
  The Mother with the Infant at her breast. 
  Hence, ghostly shadows! let me learn to draw
  Mine inspiration from the common air. 
  A peasant-woman auburn-haired, large-eyed,
  Within the shade of overhanging boughs
  Suckles her babe, and sees her eldest born
  Gambol upon the grass:  the elf has wrought
  With two snapt boughs the semblance of a cross,
  And proudly holds the sacred symbol high
  Above his head to win his mother’s praise. 
  Mine art may haply reproduce that wealth
  Of brilliant hues—­the dusk hair’s glimmering gold,
  The auroral blush, the bare breasts shining white
  Where the babe’s warm rose-face is pressed against
  That fount of generous life; but ah! what craft
  May paint the unearthly peace upon her brow,
  The holy love that from her dark moist orbs
  Beams with no lesser glory than the eyes
  Of the Maid-Mother toward her heaven-born Child.

Little Boy with the Cross.  Oh, mother, such a stranger comes this way!  I saw him as I climbed the olive tree To break the branches for my crucifix—­ tall, fair youth with floating yellow curls.  Is he an angel?

  Maria.  Silly darling, peace! 
  No longer dwell the angels on the earth,
  And see, he comes.

  Raphael.  Madonna mia, hail! 
  God bless thee and thy cherubim!