passed on into the gambling-room in the rear.  There, stretched upon the floor, shot through the heart, lay the stark form of the man she had journeyed so far and so patiently and hopefully to find.  He had grown muscular and brawny since she parted with him.  His face, too, had changed, and not for the better:  it was flushed, sodden and bearded, and the beard was dyed black.  She knelt down beside the corpse and took one of the great hands in her own.  It was still warm!  But the chill of death crept over it as she held it to her heart, and thus her last ray of hope expired.

She sat still by her dead till the man’s former companions came to prepare the body for burial.  As it was borne to the lonely grave upon the hillside she walked beside the rough coffin.  And when the grave was reached she dropped upon her knees beside it, and poured forth in a clear voice a fervent petition to the Most High to receive, for the sake of the dear Saviour who died for all the world, the soul of this poor sinner.

They had said that she might bear up till the funeral was over, but that then she would break down.  She did not.  The next morning she set her face to the East, and began again, for the fourth time, that awful journey across the Plains.  We need not follow her throughout its length.  She reached her home worn and sick, but nevertheless at once took up her old school and went on with it a few weeks.  And then the end came.

LOUIS A. ROBERTS.

* * * * *

FRANCESCA’S WORSHIP.

  In the deep afternoon, when westering calms
  Brooded above the streets of Rome, and hushed
  Their noisier clamor, at her orisons,
  In San Domenico, Francesca knelt. 
  All day her charities had overflowed
  For others.  Husband, children, friends had claimed
  Service ungrudged; the poor had gotten their dole,
  Doubled by reason of her soothing hands;
  Sick eyes had lifted at her coming, as lifts
  The parcht Campagna grass at the cool kisses
  Of winds that have been dallying with the snows
  Of Alban mountain-tops.  And now, released
  From outward ministries, and free to turn
  Inward, and up the solemn aisle of thought
  Conduct her soul, she bowed with open page
  Before the altar:  “Tenuisti manum
  Dexteram meam.” 
                  On her lips she held
  The words caressingly, as she would taste
  Each syllable and drain its separate sweetness,
  When, breaking on her still seclusion, came
  A messenger:  “Sweet mistress, grace I pray! 
  But unaware our lord hath come again,
  Bringing his gossips; and he bade me fetch
  My lady, if only for a one half hour,
  Saying the wine was flavorless without
  Her hand to pour it.” 
                    At the word she rose,
  And unreluctant followed.  No undertow