with thankfulness on the few days we were together.  I never left her.  She took her food and medicine from my hand; and I received my First Communion with her on the day she died.  The day before, kneeling by her bed, I had confessed all the sin and vanity of my heart and those miserable dreams; had destroyed with my own hand all my papers, and had resolved that I would apply to my studies, and endeavour to obtain a scholarship and the necessary preparation for Holy Orders.  It was a just ambition, little woman, undertaken humbly, in the fear of GOD, and in the path of duty; and I accomplished it years after, when I had nothing left of my mother but her memory.”

The curate was silent, and I felt, rather than saw, that the tears which were wetting my frock had not come from my own eyes, though I was crying bitterly.  I flung my arms round his neck, and hugged him tight.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” I sobbed; “so very, very sorry!”

We became quieter after a bit; and he lifted up his head and smiled, and called himself a fool for making me sad, and told me not to tell any one what he had told me, and what babies we had been, except my mother.

“Tell her everything always,” he said.

I soon cheered up, particularly as he took me over the wall, and into his workshop, and made a coffin for the poor little blackbirds, which we lined with cotton-wool and scented with musk, as a mark of respect.  Then he dug a deep hole in the garden and we buried them, and made a fine high mound of earth, and put the “hen and chicken” plants all round.  And that night, sitting on my mother’s knee, I told her “everything,” and shed a few more tears of sorrow and repentance in her arms.

* * * * *

Many years have passed since then, and many showers of rain have helped to lay the mound flat with the earth, so that the “hen and chickens” have run all over it, and made a fine plot.  The curate and his mother have met at last; and I have transplanted many flowers that he gave me to his grave.  I sometimes wonder if, in his perfect happiness, he knows, or cares to know, how often the remembrance of his story has stopped the current of conceited day-dreams, and brought me back to practical duty with the humble prayer, “Keep Thy servant also from presumptuous sins.”

FRIEDRICH’S BALLAD.

A TALE OF THE FEAST OF ST. NICHOLAS.

    “Ne pinger ne scolpir fia piu che queti,
    L’anima volta a quell’ Amor divino
    Ch’asserse a prender noi in Croce le braccia.”

    “Painting and Sculpture’s aid in vain I crave,
    My one sole refuge is that Love divine
    Which from the Cross stretched forth its arms to save.”

    Written by MICHAEL ANGELO at the age of 83.

“So be it,” said one of the council, as he rose and addressed the others.  “It is now finally decided.  The Story Woman is to be walled up.”