Then she repeated them to me:—­

  The Angel of Pain.

  Angel of Pain, I think thy face
  Will be, in all the heavenly place,
  The sweetest face that I shall see,
  The swiftest face to smile on me. 
  All other angels faint and tire;
  Joy wearies, and forsakes desire;
  Hope falters, face to face with Fate,
  And dies because it cannot wait;
  And Love cuts short each loving day,
  Because fond hearts cannot obey
  That subtlest law which measures bliss
  By what it is content to miss. 
  But thou, O loving, faithful Pain—­
  Hated, reproached, rejected, slain—­
  Dost only closer cling and bless
  In sweeter, stronger steadfastness. 
  Dear, patient angel, to thine own
  Thou comest, and art never known
  Till late, in some lone twilight place
  The light of thy transfigured face
  Sudden shines out, and, speechless, they
  Know they have walked with Christ all day.

When she had done we sat for some time silent.  Then I rose, and kissing her, still silent, went out into the unlighted room where the gilt table stood.  A beam of moonlight fell, broad and white, across its top, and flickered on the vine-leaves and the ferns.  In the dim weird light their shapes were more fantastic than ever.

The door into the outer hall stood open.  As I went toward it, I saw old Anita toiling slowly up the stairs, with a flat basket on her head.  Her wrinkled face was all aglow with delight.  As soon as she reached the threshold she set the basket down, and exclaiming, “Oh look, look, Signora!” lifted off the cover.  It was full of fresh and beautiful anemones of all colors.  She moved a few on top and showed me that those beneath were chiefly purple ones.

“Iddio mio! will not the dearest of Signoras be pleased now!” she said.  “The saints wish that she shall have all she desires; did not my Biagio’s brother come in from Albano this morning? and as I was in the Piazza Navona, buying oranges, I heard him calling from a long way off, ’Ho Anita, my Anita, here are anemones for your beautiful Signora with the bright hair.’

“They grow around an old tomb a mile away from his vineyard, and he set out from his home long before light to get them for me; for he once saw the Signora and he had heard me say that she never could have enough of anemones.  Iddio mio! but my heart is glad of them.  Ah, the dearest of Signoras!” and, with a tender touch, Anita laid the cool vine-leaves lightly back upon the anemones and hurried on in search of Dora.

How One Woman Kept Her Husband.