t pierced the front facade, a bristling
perpetual reminder of the tragedy that cried to heaven for vengeance.
She learned exactly where to expect the first glimpse of the slender
opal crescent in the primrose west; followed its waxing brilliance as
it sailed out of the green bights of the pine forest, its waning
pallor, amid the sparkling splendor of planets that lit the far east.

As the constellations trod the mazes of their stately minuet across the
distant field of blue, their outlines grew familiar as human
countenances; and from the darkness of her cell she turned to the great
golden stars throbbing in midnight skies, peering in through the iron
bars like pitying eyes of heavenly guardians. Locked away from human
companionship, and grateful for the isolation of her narrow cell, the
lonely woman found tender compensation in the kindly embrace of
Nature's arms, drawn closely about her.

The procession of the seasons became to her the advent of so many
angels, who leaned in at her window and taught her the secret of floral
runes; the mysterious gamut of bird melodies, the shrill and weird
dithyrambics of the insect world; the recitative and andante and
scherzo of wind and rain, of hail and sleet, in storm symphonies.

The Angel of Spring, with the snow of dogwood, and the faint pink of
apple blossoms on her dimpling cheeks; with violet censers swinging
incense before her crocus-sandalled feet, and the bleating of young
lambs that nestled in her warm arms.

The Angel of Summer, full blown as the red roses flaunting amid the
golden grain and amber silk tassels that garlanded her sunny brow;
poised languorously on the glittering apex of salmon clouds at whose
base lightning flickered and thunder growled,--watching through drowsy
half shut lids the speckled broods of partridges scurrying with frantic
haste through the wild poppies of ripe wheat fields, the brown covey of
shy doves ambushed among purple morning glories swinging in the dense
shade of rustling corn; listening as in a dream to the laughter of
reapers, whetting scythes in the blistering glare of meadow slopes, yet
hearing all the while, the low, sweet babble of the slender stream that
trickled through pine roots, down the hillside, and added its silvery
tinkle to the lullaby crooned by the river to its fringe of willows,
its sleeping lily pads.

The Angel of Autumn, radiant through her crystal veil of falling rain,
as with caressing touches she deepened