‘Thy song is very sad,’ said the Rose, as her eyes rested tenderly upon the inspired face.  ‘Is there no Gloria to-night, Angelo?’

’I cannot sing it now, sweet Rosalie!  The Hosanna is for heaven; not for a world in which Love is, and Death may enter.  If I am to lose thee, my soul must chant the Miserere.  Ah! that thought unmans me.  I cannot part from thee, sweet wife.  Cling closer, closer to me, Rosalie.  There!  Death must be strong to untwine that clasp!  But he alone is strong—­and Love’—­

‘Love is stronger far!’ cried the startled Rose, as she buried her face in the bosom of her husband, to hide the unwonted tears which dimmed her trustful eyes.

’Parting! there is no parting for those whom God has joined.  His ties are for eternity.  The Merciful parts not those whom He has made for each other.  Even if we must chant the Miserere here, together will we chant the Gloria before the throne of our Creator.  Ah, Angelo, do you not feel that but one life throbs in our two hearts?  Parting and Death are only seeming!’

Thus sped time on until midnight was upon the earth.  The little group were still together; mystic thoughts and previsions were upon them.  Zophiel read at intervals weird passages from the Book of Life; Jemschid touched, now and then, the face of the Madonna, and some unwonted spirit of sorrow brooded over the harp of Angelo.

‘Rosalie! once more the Miserere ere we sleep,’ said he.  Scarcely had he commenced the solemn chant, when, suddenly resting his hand on the chords, he cried:  ’Hark! brothers.  It is the voice of Anselm—­he calls he calls us—­but I hear not what he says.  Listen!’

Lo! a Shining One from the court of the Great King suddenly stands among them.  His gossamer robes seemed woven of the deep blue of the fields of space through which he had just passed, and the stars were glittering through the graceful folds bound with rare devices, wrought from the jasper, onyx, and chrysoprase of the heavenly city.

‘Brothers!’ said the sweet voice of the beautiful vision, ’the term of exile is past; the Father has sent me to recall His children.’

But the heart of the artists sank, for the human love was strong in their bosoms.

Jemschid gazed upon the betrothed bride; the unfinished picture; and tears rushed into his sad eyes.

The Angel was touched with pity for the double grief of artist and lover, and said: 

’Gaze not so sorrowfully upon the unwedded maiden; the unfinished picture!  She shall yet be thine-and the picture shall be dear to thy fellow men.  Lo!  I am Rubi, the angel of Beauty!’

Then, taking the brush in his glittering hands, with rapid touch he gave the lovely face an expression of tender innocence, of virgin purity, of maternal love and adoration, which will never cease to thrill the heart of the faithful.

‘It is the Mother of our Lord!’ said the astonished brothers, as they gazed upon the finished work.