‘All! they are all graven there,’ replied the enthusiast, ’for the glowing words of a pure poet are the true echoes of a woman’s soul!’

The Painter sat near them, putting the last touches upon a picture of a Virgin and Child, which he was striving so to finish that his brethren might be able to grasp more fully that sweet scene of human love and God’s strange mercy.

Tender were the shadows that fell from the veiling lashes on the rounded cheek of his fair model; lustrous, yet soft and meek, the light from the maiden’s eye as she gazed upon the beautiful infant resting on her bosom.  The name of the child was Jemschid, and there was in that name a charm sufficient to awaken her innocent love.

She was the betrothed of the Painter.

‘Imogen!’ said he to the fair model, ’I know not why the thought rushes so sadly over me, but I feel I shall never finish this picture.  The traits escape me—­I cannot find them.’

’Never finish the beautiful Madonna, to which you have given so much time, and on which you have expended so much care!’ Then with a sudden change of tone, in which astonishment darkened into fear, she exclaimed:  ’Are you ill, Jemschid?  You have already worked too long upon it.  You will destroy your health; you need rest.’

’Nay, sweet Imogen, not so; I am well, quite well, and too happy for words.  But I cannot finish the picture.  I have lost the expression for the face of the Madonna.  Six months ago, when I began it, your face was so meek and tranquil it served me well, but now, even with its present air of meek entreaty, it is too passionate for the mother of God.  It is far dearer thus to me, Imogen—­but I can never finish the painting now—­and only an angel can, for your young face is fairer and purer than aught else on earth.’

Again fell the heavy lashes, half veiling the innocent love in the timid eyes, as the Painter parted the massive braids from the spotless brow, and softly kissed the snowy forehead of his betrothed.

The harp of Angelo quivered, as the sun set behind the crimson clouds, under his nervous touch.  Some sadness seemed to weigh upon his buoyant spirit too, in this eventful eve.  His music always pictured the depths of his own soul, and he forced the heaven tones to wail the human Miserere.  But the Beauty into which the sorrow was transfigured gave promise that it would end in the triumphant chorus of the ’Hosanna in Excelsis.’  For music gives the absolute peace in the absolute conflict; the absolute conflict to terminate in the absolute peace.

Fair as the Angel of Hope, the Rose listened with her heart.  Her childlike, deep blue eyes were raised to heaven, while her long golden curls, lighting rather than shading her pale brow, like the halos of dim glory which the light vapors wreathe round the moon, mingled with the darker flow of wavy hair falling upon the shoulder of the harpist, on which she leaned as if to catch the flying sounds as they soared from the heart of the loved one.