Chapter III: Part 3

Then he turned to his companions, for a few had gathered near,
And his words fell hard and heavy on the Bishop's listening
ear,--
"We must cancel that inscription from the stone, and write
thereon
That Troilus hath this palace sold unto the Patriarch John,
And that thirty golden pieces were the price that he received."
Up then started Bishop Troilus, for his soul was sorely grieved,
And he tried to speak, but could not, and awoke in his dismay,
With his hand upon the money close beside him where he lay.

Now the long bright day was over; as he saw the sun descend,--
"Weary day," the Patriarch thought it; he was glad to see it
end.
He was walking in his garden where the freshening shadows lay,
And the flowers that drooped at noontime stood erect in beauty
gay;
But their brightness could not cheer him, and he bent his head
and sighed,
For he thought, with wondering sadness, that the Lord his prayer
denied,

Then he heard a step behind him, and he looked; but who was
there,
Wild of look, like one who struggled with a pain he could not
bear?
Could it be the stately Bishop? Yes, but oh, how changed to
see!
And he said with tears and trembling, "O my brother, pray for
me!"
How the Patriarch's heart rebounded from the weight that on it
pressed,
At the change so deep and sudden, in those broken words
expressed!
How his cheek grew red with gladness, how it smoothed his
troubled brow!
"God forgive me if I doubted, all my prayers are answered now."

"Come," he said, "my brother Troilus, sit beside me, tell me
all;"
And he led him, pale and helpless, to a seat beside the wall.
And there Troilus, clinging closely to that strong and helpful
hand,
Trusting in the heart that loved him and his thoughts could
understand,
Told the story of his vision to his awed and listening friend,--
All that dream of light and glory, with its sad, unlooked-for
end:
But his voice, which trembled ever, wellnigh failed him when he
told
Of the horror of that waking, with his hand upon the gold;
When his eyes, long blind, were opened, and he saw the wreck
within,
And one fearful moment, showed him what his wasted life had
been.
"Now," he said, "my courage fails me when I think to mend my
ways.
I have wasted all God gave me,--mind, and strength, and length
of days,--
And the gold I gave my soul for pulls me downward with its
weight;
Help me if you can, oh, help me! Say it is not yet too late."
And he looked with eyes beseeching at the Patriarch, who replied
With a smile that fell like sunshine on the faint heart by his
side,--

"What! too late for God's forgiveness, when He calls you to
repent?
'T was to save you, not to lose you, that the blessed dream was
sent;
'T is His help, not mine, my brother, you are needing, and you
know,
If we ask it, He will give it, for Himself has told us so.
And the prodigal returning shall be welcomed all the more
If the years were long and many since he left his Father's
door."
"But," said Troilus, "I am aged, and my manhood's strength is
past;
After such a life ungodly, can I hope for grace at last?"
"Never fear," the Patriarch answered, "there is joy in heaven
to-day,
And they ask not in their gladness if your hair be black or
gray."

So then Troilus gathered courage, and that night, by deed and
word,
Gave himself and all his substance to the service of the Lord;
Yet in his own strength mistrusting, he implored his friend anew
With his daily prayer to aid him, and he promised so to do.
And the thirty golden pieces he returned to him again,
Yes, and other thirty with them, for the change was not in vain,

Then he left the past behind him, and a better life began;
From that evening in the garden he became another man.
There was no more train about him when he walked the city
through,
For the priests who once attended now had better work to do;
And the ladies cared no longer from their balconies to lean,
When of worldly pomp and splendour there was nothing to be seen.
For the cross of many jewels on his bosom shone no more,
Having gone on works of mercy to increase his heavenly store.
But the poor and needy sought him; he was now their faithful
friend,
And they knew, whatever befell them, on his love they might
depend.

So his closing days were happy, after years of sordid care,
For no gain can bring contentment till the poor have had their
share;
And he lightened many a burden, and he righted many a wrong,
And the wealth became a blessing that had been a curse so long;
And his secret hoard was scattered, and men said that he died
poor,
But he found great wealth in heaven at the end, we may be sure.

*The Crosses on the Wall*

This beautiful legend has for me a most peculiar interest, owing to the circumstances under which I first heard it. It was taught to me by a very dear young friend whom I had known and loved from his infancy,--Piero, the only surviving child of Count Giuseppe Pasolini Zanelli of Faenza. It was only last October--eight months ago--and we were all staying together in the home of his beloved and still beautiful grandmother, at Bassano, in the Veneto. It was the last evening that we expected to pass together, and Pierino (we had never been able to give up calling him by that childish diminutive) brought a book with him, a collection of popular legends compiled by De Gubernatis, and said that he had a story to read us. It was "The Crosses on the Wall," and it has always seemed to me as though he read it on that particular evening to prepare us for what was to come. For some months he had been not quite so strong as usual, yet no one felt any particular apprehension, until on the twenty-eighth of November he died, almost without warning. He was twenty-two years old, of a very beautiful character,--so good that we ought to have known he was not for us.

With him two great and ancient families come to an end,--the Pasolini-Zanelli of Faenza, and the Baroni-Semitecolo of Bassano: these last are the only descendants of that Semitecolo who worked in mosaic at Torcello.

*The Crosses on the Wall*

*A Legend of Primiero*

Come, children, listen to what I tell,
For my words are wise to-day:
From Primiero among the hills
Was the legend brought away.

And Primiero among the hills
Is a little world apart,
Where is much to love and much to learn,
If you have a willing heart.

It lies on high, like a stranded ship,
From the parted wave of time;
Not far from the troubled world we know,
But the way is hard to climb.

For the mountains rise and close it in,
With their walls of green and gray;
With crag and forest and smooth-worn cliff,
Where the clouds alone can stray.

And when a house they have builded there,
If a blessing they would win,
Above the door do they write a prayer,
That Christ may dwell therein.

And I think, throughout the ancient town,
On its steep ascending road,
In many a heart, in many a home,
Has He taken His abode.

And when a burden is hard to bear--
And such burdens come to all--
They tell the story I 'm telling now,
Of the crosses on the wall.

'T is a pearl of wisdom, gathered far
In the dim and distant past;
But ever needed, but ever new,
As long as the world shall last.

For never has been since earth was made,
And surely shall never be,
A man so happy or wise or great,
He might from the cross be free.

The tale it is of a widow poor,
And by trouble sorely pressed;
Of how, through sorrow and many tears,
At the end her soul was blest.

She had not been always poor and sad,
For her early years were bright,
With a happy home, and with parents kind,
And herself their hearts' delight!

A mother's darling, a father's pride,
She was fair in form and face;
A sunny creature, a joy to all,
For her sweet and winning grace.

Then, early married to one she loved,
She had still been shielded well;
For her he laboured, for her he thought,
And on her no burden fell.

She worked, indeed; but what work was hers
Through the short and happy hours?
To pluck the fruit from her orchard trees,
Or to tend the garden flowers;

To sit and spin, and to sing the while
In her porch with roses gay;
To spread the table with plenty piled,
And to watch the children play.

Their home was a little nest of peace;
'T was a mile beyond the town,
In that sheltered valley, green with woods,
Where the river murmurs down.

And she never dreamed of change to come,
(Though a change must all expect,)
Till the blow, like lightning, on her fell,
And her happy life was wrecked.

But who could have thought the man would die?
There were few so strong as he!
From his forest work they bore him home,
Struck dead by a falling tree.

A petted child, and a wife beloved,
She had hardly sorrow known,
Till the strong, brave man was borne away,
And she faced the world alone.

Alone, with a babe too young to speak,
And with other children five:
"Oh, why," she asked, "are the strong removed
And the feeble left alive?"

But where is the good of asking
When our helpers disappear?
That question never was answered yet,
And it never will be, here.

There was little time to sit and weep;
She must rise, and bear the strain;
Alone she stood, with the home to keep,
And the children's bread to gain.

The best of herself had gone with him;
She had no more faith nor trust:
She could not bow to the Lord's decree,
For she felt it all unjust.

The good Lord cares for a widow's need,
But on Him she did not call.
She laboured hard, and she fought with fate,
And they lived--but that was all.

She fought her battle with fate, and failed,
As many have failed before;
If against the thorns we push and press,
They will only prick the more.

She could not bear with the children now,
And she called them rude and wild;
Forgetting quite, in her sullen grief,
That she had been once a child.

Yes, wild they were; and like all wild things
They were light and swift and strong;
And her poor, sick spirit turned away
From the gay, unruly throng.

They swam the river, they climbed the trees,
They were full of life and play;
But oft, when their mother's voice they heard,
They hid from her sight away.

They did not love her, and that she knew,
And of that she oft complained;
But not by threats nor by angry words
Could the children's love be gained.

Respect and honour we may command;
They will come at duty's call:
But love, the beautiful thornless rose,
Grows wild, when it grows at all.

And she grew bitter, as time went on,
Grew bitter and hard and sore.
Till one day she cried in her despair,
"I can bear my life no more!

"Look down from Heaven, good Lord, and see
And pity my cruel fate!
Oh, come, and in mercy take away
My burden, for 't is too great!

"My heart is breaking with all its load,
And I feel my life decline;
Never I think did the woman live
Who has borne a cross like mine!"

To her cry for help an answer came,
And solemn it was, and strange!
For a silence deep around her fell,
And the place seemed all to change.

She stood in a sad and sombre room,
Where from ceiling down to floor,
Along the wall and on every side,
There were crosses--nothing more.

There were crosses old, and crosses new,
There were crosses large and small;
And in their midst there was One who stood
As the Master of them all.

Before His presence her eyes dropped low,
And her wild complaining died;
For she knew the cross that He had borne
Was greater than all beside.

And He bade her choose, and take away,
From among the many there,
Another cross, in exchange for hers,
That she found too great to bear.

She looked for those that were least in size,
And she quickly lifted one;
But oh, 't was heavy, and pained her more
Than her own had ever done!

She laid it back with a trembling hand--
"And whose cross is that?" she cried;
"For heavier 't is than even mine!"
And a solemn voice replied:

"That cross belongs to a maiden young,
But of youth she little knows;
For the days to her are days of pain,
And the night brings scant repose.

"A helpless, suffering, useless thing!
And her pain will never cease,
Till death in pity will come one day,
And her troubles end in peace.

"She never has walked the pleasant fields,
Nor has sat beneath the trees;
The hospital wall that shuts her in
Is the only world she sees.

"She has no mother, she has no home,
And in strangers' hands she lies;
With none to care for her while she lives,
Nor weep for her when she dies."

"But why is the cross so small, my Lord,
And why does her heart not break?"
"She counts it little," the answer came,
"For she bears it for my sake."

The widow blushed with a sudden shame;
To her eyes the tears arose:
She dried them soon, and again she turned,
And another cross she chose.

It fell from her hand against the wall,
And she let it there remain:
"That cross shall never be mine," she said,
"Though I take my own again!

"And whose is this that I cannot hold?
For it seems to burn my hand!
And never, I think, was heart so strong
That could such a weight withstand."

"The cross it is of a gentle wife,
And she wears it all unseen;
With early sorrow her hair is white,
But she keeps a smile serene.

"She gave her heart to an evil man,
And she thought him good and true;
And long she trusted and long believed,
But at last the truth she knew.

"She knows that his soul is stained with crime,
But the worst she still conceals;
Abuse and terror her sole reward,
And the Lord knows what she feels!

"She cannot leave him, for love dies hard,
And her children bear his name;
But she prays for grace, to keep and guard
Their innocent lives from shame.

"She trembles oft when his step she hears
On a lonely winter night;
And she hides her frightened babes afar
From their cruel father's sight.

"And she dares not even hope for death,
Though his hand might set her free:
'T were well for her in the grave to rest;
But where would the children be?"

The widow shuddered, her face grew pale,
And she no more turned to look:
She reached her hand to the wall near by,
And a cross by chance she took.

'T was not so large as the first had been,
But it seemed a fearful weight!
"And whose am I holding now?" she asked,
For it did not look so great.

"A mother's cross is the one you bear,"
So the voice in answer said,
"And she once had children six like you;
But her children all are dead.

"She has all besides that earth can give;
She has friends and wealth to spare,
And house and land--but she counts them not,
For the children are not there.

"Time passes slowly, and she grows old;
But she may not yet depart.
In lonely splendour she counts the years,
With an empty, hungry heart.

"And she knows by whom the cross was sent,
And she tries her head to bow;
But six green mounds by the churchyard wall
Are the most she cares for now."

The widow thought of her own wild brood,
And she felt a creeping chill:
And, "Oh, give me back my cross!" she said,
"I will keep and bear it still.

"Forgive me, Lord" (and with that she knelt,
And for very shame she wept).
"I know my sin, that I could not bow,
Nor Thy holy will accept.

"Oh, give me patience, for life is hard;
And the daily strength I need!
And by Thy grace I will try to bear
The burden for me decreed.

"I'll change my ways with the children now,
Though they give me added cares.
Poor babes! I know, if they love me not,
That the blame is mine, not theirs!"

She kept her word as the weeks went on,
And she fought with fate no more:
'T was now with a patient, humble heart
That her daily cross she bore.

The children wondered to see her change
So greatly in look and speech!
She met them now with a smile so kind,
And a gentle word for each.

And soon they learned, from her altered ways,
What her words had vainly taught;
Their love, that long she had claimed in vain,
Came back to her all unsought.

There were merry shouts and dancing feet,
When the mother came in sight;
There were little arms around her thrown,
There were eyes with joy alight.

With love for teacher, they learned to help,
There was work for fingers small:
Her heart grew soft like the earth in spring,
And she thanked the Lord for all!

Her girls so pretty, her boys so brave,
And so helpful all and kind!
She wondered often, and thought with shame
Of how she had once repined.

For in their presence she oft forgot
Her burden of want and care,
Forgot her trouble--forgot, almost,
That she had a cross to bear!

*Suora Marianna*

*Suora Marianna*

Little children, will you listen to a simple tale of mine,
That I learned at San Marcello, in the Tuscan Apennine,
From an aged, saintly woman, gone to heaven long ago?
It has helped me on my journey, and as yet you cannot know
Half the wisdom stored within it, nor the comfort it can give;
But still, try and not forget it! You will need it if you live,
And some day, when life is waning and your hands begin to tire,
You will think of Marianna, and her vision by the fire.

In a convent, old and quiet, near a little country town,
On a chestnut-shaded hillside, to the river sloping down,
Dwelt a few of those good sisters who go out among the poor,
Who must labour late and early, and much weariness endure;
And the one who did in patience and in all good works excel
Was the Sister Marianna, she whose story now I tell.

She was ever kind and willing, for each heavy task prepared:
No one ever thought to spare her, and herself she never spared.
All unpraised and all unnoticed, bearing burdens not her own,
Yet she lived as rich and happy as a queen upon her throne!

She was rich, though few would think it; for God gave her grace
to choose,
Not the world's deceitful riches, but the wealth one cannot
lose.
There are many heap up treasure, but it is not every one
Who will take his treasure with him when his earthly life is
done.

Was she beautiful? I know not. She had eyes of peaceful light,
And her face looked sweet and blooming in its frame of linen
white.
To the sick and heavy-hearted she was pleasant to behold,
And she seemed a heavenly vision to the feeble and the old.
She was happy when she wandered up the wandering mountain road,
Bearing food and warmth and blessing to some desolate abode,
Though the ice-cold winds were blowing and her woman's strength
was tried;
For she knew who walked there with her, in her heart and by her
side.
She was happy--oh, so happy!--in her little whitewashed cell
Looking out among the branches, where they gave her leave to
dwell
In her scanty hours of leisure; for there, looking from the
wall,
Were the dear and holy faces that she loved the best of all.

'T was an old and faded picture, poorly painted at the best,
Of Our Lord, the Holy Infant, in His Mother's arms at rest.
But her faith and loving fancy had a glory to it lent,
And the faces that she saw there were not what the artist meant
And the wooden shelf before it she would often-times adorn
With the buttercup and bluebell, and the wild rose from the
thorn,
Which she gathered, when returning, while the morning dew was
bright,
From some home, remote and lonely, where she watched the sick by
night.
So her life was full of sunshine, for in toiling for the Lord
She had found the hidden sweetness that in common things lies
stored:
He has strewn the earth with flowers, and each eye their
brightness sees;
But He filled their cups with honey, for His humble working
bees.

But there came a time--poor sister!--when her rosy cheek grew
pale,
And her eyes, with all their sunlight, seemed to smile as
through a veil;
And her step was weak and heavy, as she trod the steep ascent,
Where through weeks of wintry weather to her loving work she
went.
'T was a foot-path, lone and narrow, winding up among the trees,
And 't was hard to trace in winter, when the slippery ground
would freeze,
And the snow fall thick above it, hiding every sign and mark;
But she went that way so often she could climb it in the dark!
'T was to nurse a poor young mother, by fierce malady assailed,
That she made the daily journey, and she never once had failed.
Now the short sharp days were over, and the spring had just
begun;
Every morn the light came sooner, and more strength was in the
sun.

All around the grass was springing, and its tender verdure
spread,
Mid the empty burrs of chestnuts, and the old leaves, brown and
dead,
Low and small, but creeping, creeping till it almost touched the
edge
Of the daily lessening snow-drifts, under rock or thorny hedge.
From the wreck of last year's autumn life awakened, strong and
new,
And the buds were crowding upward, though as yet the flowers
were few.

Many nights had she been watching, and with little rest by day,
For her heart was in the chamber where that helpless woman lay;
There the flame of life she cherished, when it almost ceased to
burn,
Praying God to help and keep them till the husband should
return.

'T was the old and common story, such as all of us can hear,
If we care to, in the mountains, every day throughout the year!
She who languished, weak and wasting, in the garret chamber
there,
Had been once as strong and happy as the wild birds in the air.
She had been a country beauty, for the boys to serenade;
And the poets sang about her, in the simple rhymes they made,
And with glowing words compared her to the lilies as they grew,
Or to stars, or budding roses, as their manner is to do.
Then the man who played at weddings with his ancient violin,
With his sad, impassioned singing, had contrived her heart to
win;
And one brilliant April morning he had brought her home, a
bride,
To his farm and low-built cottage on the mountain's terraced
side.
'T was a poor, rough home to look at, and from neighbours far
away,
But with love and health and music there was much to make it
gay.
They were happy, careless people, and they thought not to
complain,
Though the door were cracked and broken, or the roof let in the
rain:
They could pile the fire with branches, while the winter storms
swept by;

For the rest, their life was mostly out beneath the open sky.
Time had come, and brought its changes,--sunshine first, and
then the shade,
Frost untimely, chestnuts blighted. Sickness came, and debts
were made;
Fields were sold, alas, to pay them; yet their troubles did not
cease,
And the poor man's heart was troubled thus to see his land
decrease!
Fields were gone, and bread was wanting, for there now were
children small;
Much he loved them, much he laboured--but he could not feed them
all.

So he left them, heavy-hearted, and his fortune went to try
In the low Maremma country, where men gain or where they die,
With its soft and treacherous beauty, with its fever-laden air;
But as yet the fever spared him, and they hoped it yet would
spare.
'T was a long and cruel winter in the home he left behind:
Lonely felt the house without him, and the young wife moped and
pined:
Still her children's love sustained her, till this sickness laid
her low;
When good Sister Marianna came to nurse her, as you know.

Week on week had hope been waning, as more feeble still she
grew:
Marianna tried, but vainly, every simple cure she knew.
Then the doctor gave up hoping, and his long attendance ceased:
"I can do no more," he told her; "you had better call the
priest.
To her husband I have written; he will have the news to-day:
If he cares again to see her, he had best be on his way!"

Now the priest has done his office; at the open door he stands,
And he says to Marianna: "I can leave her in your hands,--
I have other work that calls me; if to-night she chance to die,
You can say the prayers, good sister, for her soul as well as
I."

So they left her, all unaided, in the house forlorn and sad,
Still to watch and think and labour with what failing strength
she had.
There was none to share her burden, none to speak to, none to
see--
Save a helpful boy of seven, and a restless one of three,
And their little dark-eyed sister (she was five, and came
between),
And a baby, born that winter, which the father had not seen.

Two days more! Her friend lay sleeping, and she watched beside
the bed:
In her arms she rocked the baby, while the Latin prayers she
said,--
Prayers to help a soul departing;--yet she never quite
despaired!
Might not yet the Lord have pity, and that mother's life be
spared?
'T was so hard to see her going--such a mother, kind and dear!
There was ne'er another like her in the country, far or near!
(So thought Sister Marianna.) Yet to murmur were a sin.
But her tears kept rising, rising, though she tried to hold them
in,
Till one fell and lay there shining, on the head that she
caressed,
Small and pretty, dark and downy, lying warm against her breast,
She was silent; something moved her that had neither place nor
part
In the grave and stately cadence of the prayers she knew by
heart.
Then she spoke, with eyes dilated, with her soul in every word,
As to one she saw before her--"Thou hast been a child, my Lord!
Thou hast lain as small and speechless as this infant on my
knees;
Thou hast stretched toward Thy Mother little helpless hands like
these:
Thou hast known the wants of children, then-- Oh, listen to my
plea,
For one moment, Lord, remember what Thy Mother was to Thee!
Think, when all was dark around Thee how her love did Thee
enfold;
How she tended, how she watched Thee; how she wrapped Thee from
the cold!
How her gentle heart was beating, on that night of tears and
strife,
When the cruel guards pursued Thee, when King Herod sought Thy
life!
How her arms enclosed and hid Thee, through that midnight
journey wild!
Oh, for love of Thine own Mother, save the mother of this
child!"

Now she paused and waited breathless; for she seemed to know and
feel
That the Lord was there, and listened to her passionate appeal.
Then she bowed her head, all trembling; but a light was in her
eye,
For her soul had heard the answer: that young mother would not
die!
Yes, the prayer of faith had saved her! And a change began that
day:
When she woke her breath was easy, and the pain had passed away.
So the day that dawned so sadly had a bright and hopeful close,
And a solemn, sweet thanksgiving from the sister's heart arose.

Now the night had closed around them, and a lonesome night it
seemed!
For the sky was black and starless, and for hours the rain had
streamed:
And the wind and rain together made a wild and mournful din,
As they beat on door and window, madly struggling to come in.

Marianna, faint and weary with the strain of many days,
On the broad stone hearth was kneeling, while she set the fire
ablaze,
For the poor lone soul she cared for would, ere morning, need to
eat.
"Now, God help me," said the sister, "this night's labour to
complete!"
'T was a meal she knew would please her, which she lovingly
prepared,
Of that best and chosen portion, from the convent table spared,
Which she brought, as was her habit, with much other needed
store,
In the worn old willow basket, standing near her on the floor.

On her work was much depending, so she planned to do her best;
And she set the earthen pitcher on the coals as in a nest,
With the embers laid around it; then she thought again, and cast
On the pile a few gray ashes, that it might not boil too fast.
But the touch of sleep was on her, she was dreaming while she
planned,
And the wooden spoon kept falling from her limp and listless
hand.
Then she roused her, struggling bravely with this languor, which
she viewed
As a snare, a sore temptation, to be fought with and subdued.
But another fear assailed her--what if she should faint or fall?
And to-night the storm-swept cottage seems so far away from all!
How the fitful wind is moaning! And between the gusts that
blow,
She can hear the torrent roaring, in the deep ravine below.

And her head is aching strangely, as it never did before:
"Good Lord, help me!" she is saying: "this can last but little
more!
O my blessed Lord and Master, only help me through the night--
Only keep my eyes from closing till they see the morning light!
For that mother and that baby do so weak and helpless lie,
And with only me to serve them,--if I leave them, they may die!
She is better--yes, I know it, but a touch may turn the scale.
I can send for help to-morrow, but to-night I must not fail!"
'T was in vain; for sleep had conquered, and the words she tried
to say
First became a drowsy murmur, then grew faint and died away.
And she slept as sleep the weary, heedless how the night went
on,
With her pitcher all untended, with her labour all undone;
On the wall her head reclining, in the chimney's empty space,
While the firelight flared and flickered on her pale and
peaceful face.
Was her humble prayer unanswered? Oh, the Lord has many a way
That His children little think of, to send answers when they
pray!
It was long she sat there sleeping--do you think her work was
spoiled?
No, the fir-wood fire kept burning, and the pitcher gently
boiled:
Ne'er a taint of smoke had touched it, nor one precious drop
been spilt;
When she moved and looked around her, with a sudden sense of
guilt.
But her eyes, when first they opened, saw a vision, strange and
sweet,
For a little Child was standing on the hearth-stone at her feet.
And He seemed no earthly infant, for His robe was like the snow,
And a glory shone about Him that was not the firelight glow.
And Himself her work was doing! For He kept the fire alive,
And He watched the earthen pitcher, that no danger might arrive
To the simple meal, now ready, with the coals around it piled;
Then He turned His face toward her, and she knew the Holy Child.
'T was her Lord who stood before her! And she did not shrink
nor start--
There was more of joy than wonder in her all-believing heart.
When her willing hands were weary, when her patient eyes were
closed,
He had finished all she failed in, He had watched while she
reposed.
Do you ask of His appearance? Human words are weak and cold;
'T is enough to say she knew Him--that is all she ever told.
Yes, as you and I will know Him when that happy day shall come,
When, if we on earth have loved Him, He will bid us welcome
home!
But with that one look He left her, and the vision all had
passed,
(Though the peace it left within her to her dying hour would
last!)
Storm had ceased, and wind was silent, there was no more sound
of rain,
And the morning star was shining through the window's broken
pane.

Later, when the sun was rising, Marianna looked to see,
O'er the stretch of rain-washed country, what the day was like
to be,
While the door she softly opened, letting in the morning breeze,
As it shook the drops by thousands from the wet and shining
trees.
And she saw the sky like crystal, for the clouds had rolled
away,
Though they lay along the valleys, in their folds of misty grey,
Or to mountain sides were clinging, tattered relics of the
storm.
And among the trees below her she could see a moving form;
'T was the husband home returning, yes, thank God! he came at
last:
There was no one else would hasten up that mountain road so
fast.
Now the drooping boughs concealed him, now he came in sight
again;
All night long had he been walking in the darkness, in the rain;
Through the miles of ghostly forest, through the villages
asleep,
He had borne his burden bravely, till he reached that hillside
steep;
And as yet he seemed not weary, for his springing step was
light,
But his face looked worn and haggard with the anguish of the
night.
Now his limbs began to tremble, and he walked with laboured
breath,
For he saw his home before him, should he find there life or
death?
How his heart grew faint within him as he neared the wished-for
place!
One step more, his feet had gained it, they were standing face
to face.
"God has helped us!" was her answer to the question in his eye;
And her smile of comfort told him that the danger had gone by.

It was morning now, fair morning! and the broken sunlight fell
Through the boughs that crossed above her, where the buds began
to swell,
As adown the sloping pathway, that her feet so oft had pressed,
Went the Sister Marianna to her convent home to rest.
It was spring that breathed around her, for the winter strove no
more,
And the snowdrifts all had vanished with the rain the night
before.
Now a bee would flit beside her, as she lightly moved along;
Or a bird among the branches tried a few low notes of song.
But her heart had music sweeter than the bird-notes in her ears!
She was leaving joy behind her in that home of many tears:
Hope was there, and health returning; there were happy voice and
smile,
For the father at his coming had brought plenty for a while.
And she knew with whom she left them, for herself His care had
proved,
When her mortal eyes were opened, and she saw the face she
loved,
On that night of storm and trouble, when to help her He had
come,
As He helped His own dear Mother in their humble earthly home.

As she went the day grew warmer; sweeter came the wild bird's
call;
Then, what made her start and linger? 'T was a perfume, that
was all:
Faint, but yet enough to tell her that the violets were in
bloom;
And she turned aside to seek them, for that picture in her room.

*The Lupins*

The simple story of "The Lupins" is very commonly known among the country people, who often quote it as a remedy for discontent.

*The Lupins*

'T was a day in late November,
When the fruits were gathered in;
Day to dream in, and remember
All the beauty that had been.

Peacefully the year was dying;
Soft the air, and deep the blue;
Brown and bare the fields were lying,
Where the summer harvest grew.

Autumn flowers had bloomed and seeded;
Yet a few of humblest kind,
Waiting till they most were needed,
Brought the pleasant days to mind.

Here and there a red-tipped daisy
Still its small bright face would show;
While above the distance hazy
Rose the mountains, white with snow.

With a light subdued and tender,
Shone the sun on vale and hill,
Where the faded autumn splendour
Left a sober sweetness still.

By a road that wandered, winding,
Far among the hills away,
Walked a man, despondent, finding
Little comfort in the day.

Pale of tint and fine of feature,
Formed with less of strength than grace,
Seldom went a sadder creature,
Seeking work from place to place.

He from noble race descended,
Heir to wealth and honoured name,
Who had oft the poor befriended
When about his door they came,

By a brother's evil doing
Had to poverty been brought:
Now his listless way pursuing,
Ever on the past he thought.

He, to hope no longer clinging,
Drifted, led he knew not where,
By a sound of far-off singing
Floating in the dreamy air,--

Many voices sweetly blending,
Sounding o'er the hills remote,
Every verse the same, and ending
In one plaintive, long-drawn note.

"Olive gatherers, I know them,
Singing songs from tree to tree;
If the road will lead me to them,
There are food and work for me."

He a humble meal was making,
While he warmed him in the sun;
From his pocket slowly taking
Yellow lupins, one by one.

Most forlorn he felt and lonely,
While he ate them on the way;
For those lupins, and they only,
Were his food for all the day.

Since to shame his brother brought him,
Want had often pressed him sore;
Yet misfortune never brought him
Quite so low as this before!

"If my lot be hard and painful,
There 's one comfort still for me;"
(Said he, with a smile disdainful,)
"Poorer, I can never be.

"There's no lower step to stand on,
No more burning shame to feel:
Not a crust to lay my hand on,
Only lupins for a meal!"

He could see the laden table
Where his parents used to dine:
Well for them who were not able
Then the future to divine.

Oh, but he was glad God took them
Ere they saw him fall so low:
How their cherished hope forsook them,
They had never lived to know.

"I, so dearly loved and cared for,
I, on whom such hopes were built,
Whom such blessings were prepared for--
Ruined by a brother's guilt!"

Now he wrung his hands despairing,
Stamped his foot upon the ground;
Bitter thoughts his heart were tearing,--
When he heard a footstep sound.

Then he started, sobered quickly,
Took an attitude sedate,
With that terror, faint and sickly,
Which he often felt of late.

What if some old friend should find him?
But he turned, the story tells,
And he saw a man behind him,
Picking up the lupin shells;

Picking up the shells and eating
What the other cast away.
Now abashed, their eyes were meeting:
'T was a beggar, worn and gray,

Hollow-eyed and thin and wasted;
By his look you might suppose,
He had ne'er a morsel tasted
Since the sun that morning rose.

Stood the younger man astonished,
And no more bewailed his fate;
Only bowed his head, admonished
By the sight of want so great.

Then he said: "Come here, my brother,
And the lupins we will share;
Maybe, if we help each other,
God will have us in His care."

"Thank the Lord! and you, kind master!
May He help you in your need;
Save your soul from all disaster
And remember your good deed!"

Said the beggar, smiling brightly.
And the other thus replied,--
Now content, and walking lightly
By his poorer neighbour's side,--

"Friend, you have a blessing brought me.
And I thank you in my turn,
For a lesson you have taught me
Which I needed much to learn.

"And henceforth will I endeavour
Not to pine for fortune high,
But remember there is ever
Some one lower down than I.

"But alas, when I was younger,
Wealth and honoured state were mine;
Shame, my friend, is worse than hunger:
'T is for this that I repine."

Then the beggar rose up stately,
Looked the other in the face,
Saying (for he wondered greatly),
"Poverty is no disgrace;

"For our Lord, I think, was poorer
Once than you or even I,
And His poor of Heaven are surer
Than the rich who pass them by."

So the two went on together,
Casting on the Lord their care,
Happy in the balmy weather,
Happy in their simple fare.

Now an ancient olive o'er them
Threw its slender lines of shade,
Bending low its boughs before them,
Silver-leafed that cannot fade;

Bearing fruit in winter season,
Still through every change the same:
Tree of peace--they had good reason
Who have called it by that name!

And with that the story leaves them;
You can end it as you please:
Gain that cheers, or loss that grieves them,
Life of toil, or life of ease.

Did some fortune unexpected
Give to one his wealth again?
Or did both, forlorn, neglected,
End their days in want and pain?

Many years have they been dwelling
Where such trifles of the way
Are not counted worth the telling!
Both are with the Lord to-day.

He in whom their souls confided
Did for both a home prepare;
Yet that humble meal divided
Gives a blessing even there.

*The Silver Cross*

The story of "St. Caterina of Siena and her Silver Cross" is one of her many visions, recorded by her confessor.

*The Silver Cross*

Through the streets of old Siena, at the dawning of the day,
Went the holy Caterina, as the bells began to sound;
With the light of peace celestial in her eyes of olive gray,
For her soul was with the angels, while her feet were on the
ground.

She was fair as any lily, with as delicate a grace;
And the air of early morning had just tinged her cheek with
rose:
Yet one hardly thought of beauty in that pale, illumined face,
That the souls in trouble turned to, finding comfort and repose.

And the men their heads uncovered, though they dared not speak
her praise,
When they saw her like a vision down the row street descend;
And they wondered what she looked at, with that far-off dreamy
gaze,
While her lips were often moving, as though talking to a friend.

There were few abroad so early, and she scarcely heard a sound,
Save the cooing of the pigeons, as about her feet they strayed,
Or the bell that sweetly called her to the church where she was
bound;
While the palaces around her stood in silence and in shade.

And the towers built for warfare rose about her, dark and proud,
But their summits caught a glory, as the morning onward came,
And the summer sky beyond them was alight with fleecy cloud,
Where the gray of dawn was changing, first to rose and then to
flame.

By a shrine of the Madonna, at a corner where she passed,
Stood a stranger leaning on it, as though weary and forlorn,
With a bundle slung behind him and a cloak about him cast;
For he shivered in the freshness of the pleasant summer morn.

Said the stranger, "Will you help me?" and she looked on him and
knew,
By his hand that trembled feebly as he held it out for aid,
By his eyes that were so heavy, and his lips of ashen hue,
That the terrible Maremma had its curse upon him laid.

So she listened to his story, that was pitiful to hear,
Of a widowed mother waiting on the mountain for her son;
How to help her he had laboured till the summer time drew near,
And of how the fever took him just before his work was done.

He was young and he was hopeful, and the smile began to come
In his eyes, as though they thanked her for the pity she
bestowed,
And he said: "I shall recover if I reach my mountain home,
And if some good Christian people will but help me on the road.

"For I go to Casentino, where the air is pure and fine,
But my strength too often fails me, and the place is far away;
So I pray you give me something, for a little bread and wine,
That I may not set out fasting on my weary walk to-day."

Then a certain faint confusion with her pity seemed to blend,
And her face, so sweet and saintly, showed the shadow of a
cloud,
As she said: "I am no lady, though you call me so, my friend,
But a poor Domenicana who to poverty am vowed.

"I can give a prayer to help you on your journey, nothing more,
For these garments I am wearing are the sisterhood's, not mine,
And the very bread they gave me when I left the convent door
To a beggar by the wayside I this morning did consign.

"I would give you all you ask for if I had it to command."
Then she sighed and would have left him, but the stranger made
her stay,
For he held her by the mantle, with his cold and wasted hand:
"For the love of Christ, my lady, do not send me thus away!"

He had used the name unthinking, but it moved her none the less,
And she turned again toward him, with a softened, solemn air,
While her hand began to wander up and down her simple dress,
As though vaguely it were seeking for some trifle she could
spare.

Then the rosary she lifted that was hanging at her waist,
And its silver cross unfastened, which was small and very old,
With the edges worn and rounded and the image half effaced,
Yet she loved it more than lady ever loved a cross of gold.

It had been her life companion, in the tempest, in the calm;
She had held it to her bosom when she prayed with troubled mind;
And she kissed it very gently, as she laid it in his palm,
"For the love of Christ, then, take it; 'tis the only thing I
find."

So he thanked her and departed, and she thought of him no more,
Save to ask the Lord to help him, when that day in church she
prayed;
But the cross of Caterina on his heart the stranger wore,
And her presence unforgotten like a blessing with him stayed.

Now the city life is stirring, and the streets are in the sun,
And the bells ring out their music o'er the busy town again,
As the people slowly scatter from the church where Mass is done;
But the blessed Caterina in her seat did still remain.

For the sleep divine was on her, which so often to her came,
When of mortal life the shadow from around her seemed to fall;
And she looked on things celestial with her happy soul aflame:
But that day the dream that held her was the sweetest of them
all.

For the Lord appeared in glory, and he seemed to her to stand
In a chamber filled with treasures such as eye had never seen;
And a cross of wondrous beauty He was holding in His hand,
Set with every stone most precious and with pearls of light
serene.

And He told her that those treasures were the presents He
received
From the souls on earth who love Him, and are seeking Him to
please.
Were they deeds of noble service? that was what she first
believed,
And she thought, "What happy people who can bring Him gifts like
these!"

For herself could offer nothing, and she sighed to think how far
From the best she ever gave him were the gems in that bright
store.
But He held the cross toward her, that was shining like a star,
And He bade her look and tell Him had she seen it e'er before.

"No," she answered humbly, "never did my eyes the like behold."
But a flood of sudden sweetness came upon her like a wave,
For she saw among the jewels and the work of beaten gold
Was the little Cross of Silver that for love of Christ she gave.

And I think her dream that morning was a message from above,
That a proof of deepest meaning we might learn and understand,--
Though our very best be worthless that we give for Jesus' love,
It will change and turn to glory when He takes it in His hand.

*The Tears of Repentance*

THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE I found in a book called _Maraviglie di Dio ne' Suoi Santi_, by the Jesuit Father, Padre Carlo Gregorio Rosignoli, printed at Bologna in 1696. He says it was written originally by Theophilus Raynaudus.

*The Tears of Repentance*

_PART FIRST_

*THE MOUNTAIN*

A wild, sad story I tell to-day,
And I pray you to listen all!
You cannot think how my heart is moved
As the legend I recall,--

The legend that made me weep so oft,
When I was a child like you!
I tell it now, in my life's decline,
And it brings the tears anew.

It came to us down through ages long;
For this story had its scene
In the far-away, gorgeous, stormy days
Of the empire Byzantine.

And it tells of a famous mountain chief,
A terrible, fierce brigand,
Who ravaged the country, far and wide,
At the head of an armed band.

So hard of heart was this evil man
That he spared not young nor old:
He killed and plundered, and burned and spoiled,
In his maddening thirst for gold;

Would come with a swoop on a merchant troop,
That peacefully went its way,
And the counted gains of a journey long
Were scattered in one short day!

He knew no pity, he owned no law,
Nor human, nor yet divine;
Would take the gold from a Prince's chest,
Or the lamp from a wayside shrine.

In hidden valley, in wild ravine,
On desolate, heath-grown hill,
He buried his treasure away from sight,
And most of it lies there still.

And none were free in that land to dwell,
Except they a tribute paid;
For the robber chief, who was more than king,
Had this burden on them laid.

If any dared to resist the claim,
He was met with vengeance dire;
His lands were wasted before the dawn,
And his harvest burned with fire.

And some day maybe himself was slain,
And left in the road to lie;
To fill with terror the quaking heart
Of the next who journeyed by.

And many fled to the towns afar,
And their fields were left untilled;
While want and trouble and trembling fear
Had the stricken country filled.

High up on a mountain's pathless side
Had the robber made his den,
In a rocky cave, where he reigned supreme
Over twenty lawless men.

A price had long on his head been set,
But for that he little cared;
For few were they who could climb the way,
And fewer were those who dared.

For those who hunted him long before
Had a fearful story brought:
They were not men on the mountain side,
But demons who with them fought!

For horrible forms arose, they said,
As if from the earth they grew;
And rolled down rocks from the cliffs above
On any who might pursue.

From town to town and from land to land,
Had his evil fame been spread;
And voices lowered and lips grew grave
When the hated name they said.

The people's heart had grown faint with fear,
And they thought no hope remained;
But hope again on their vision dawned,
When the Emperor's ear they gained.

Mauritius reigned o'er the nations then;
He was great in warlike fame,
And he was not one to shrink or quake
At a mountain bandit's name.