had touched the young man's heart. And prayers were ordered for
him. Sister St. Luke tended her doves, and at the hour of meditation
paced to and fro between the lime tree and the bush of white roses.
When she was thirty years old her cup was full, for then she was
permitted to take lessons and play a little upon the old organ.

Melvyna went every Sunday to the bare, struggling little Presbyterian
mission over in the town, and she remains to this day a Sawyer.

But Keith remembered. He bares his head silently in reverence to all
womanhood, and curbs his cynicism as best he can, for the sake of the
little Sister--the sweet little Sister St. Luke.

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.

CLEOPATRA'S SOLILOQUY.

What care I for the tempest? What care I for the rain?
If it beat upon my bosom, would it cool its burning pain--
This pain that ne'er has left me since on his heart I lay,
And sobbed my grief at parting as I'd sob my soul away?
O Antony! Antony! Antony! when in thy circling arms
Shall I sacrifice to Eros my glorious woman's charms,
And burn life's sweetest incense before his sacred shrine
With the living fire that flashes from thine eyes into mine?
O when shall I feel thy kisses rain down upon my face,
As, a queen of love and beauty, I lie in thine embrace,
Melting--melting--melting, as a woman only can
When she's a willing captive in the conquering arms of man,
As he towers a god above her, and to yield is not defeat,
For love can own no victor if love with love shall meet?
I still have regal splendor, I still have queenly power,
And--more than all--unfaded is woman's glorious dower.
But what care I for pleasure? what's beauty to me now,
Since Love no longer places his crown upon my brow?
I have tasted its elixir, its fire has through me flashed,
But when the wine glowed brightest from my eager lip 'twas dashed.
And I would give all Egypt but once to feel the bliss
Which thrills through all my being whene'er I meet his kiss.
The tempest wildly rages, my hair is wet with rain,
But it does not still my longing, or cool my burning pain.
For Nature's storms are nothing to the raging of my soul
When it burns with jealous frenzy beyond a queen's control.
I fear not pale Octavia--that haughty Roman dame--
My lion of the desert--my Antony can tame.
I fear no Persian beauty, I fear no Grecian maid: