es, high on a jagged ledge, bleating for the lamb
asleep under the chestnuts down in the dell.

Across the chasm of years floated the echo of the tinkling bell, that
told where cows climbed in search of herbage; the singular rhythmic
cadence of the trescone, danced in a neighboring vineyard; the deep,
mellow, lingering tones of a monastery bell, rung by hermit hands in a
gray tower on a mountain eyry, that looked westward upon the sparkling
blue mirror of the Mediterranean.

Then she was twelve years old, dreaming glorious midsummer day-dreams,
as she wandered with parents and brother on one of her father's
sketching tours through unfrequented nooks; now--?

A petulant cry, emphasized by the baby hand tugging at the hem of her
dress skirt, recalled Beryl's attention; and as she looked down at the
waif, whom the chaplain had christened "Dovie" on the day of her
mother's burial, the little one held up her arms.

"So tired, Dulce? You can't be hungry; you must want your nap. There
don't fret, baby girl. I will take you directly."

She stepped down, turned the side of the blackboard that contained the
sketch to the wall; lowered the sash which she had raised to admit
fresh air, and lifted the child from the floor. Approaching the figure
who sat motionless as a statue of woe, she laid a hand on the drooping
shoulder.

"Shall I help you down the steps?"

"No, I'll stay here a while. This is the only place where I can get
courage enough to pray. Couldn't you leave her--the child--with me? It
has been years since I could bear the sight of one. I hated children,
because my heart was so black--so bitter; but now, I yearn toward this
little thing. I am so starved for the kiss of--of--," she swept her
hand across her throat, where a sob stifled her.

"Certainly, if she will stay contentedly. See whether she will come to
you."

At sight of the extended arms, the baby shrank closer to Beryl, nestled
her head under the girl's chin, and put up her lower lip in ominous
protest. With an indescribably mournful gesture of surrender, the
childless mother sank back in the corner of the bench.

"I don't wonder she is afraid; she knows--everybody, everything knows I
killed my baby--my own boy, who slept for nearly four years on my
heart--oh!--"

"Hush--she was frightened by your crying. She is sleepy now, but when
she has had her nap, and wakes good-humored, I will fill her bottle,
and bring her down to you. Try not to torment yo