ve mountains, and have not charity,"
which is love, "it profiteth me nothing." And in the joy of their first
meeting, the only words that Mary Hoyt could utter were: "Charity
suffereth long--beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all
things, endureth all things; charity _never_ faileth."

On their wedding day they visited the site of the old homestead. There,
in the hollow that had been the cellar, lay the old brass kettle, and in
it a flat-iron that had fallen off Mary's ironing-board. The wort with
which the kettle had been filled had prevented it from entirely melting,
and since she could not dance in it at her sister's wedding, she was
lifted in it now by her husband and danced in it at her own.

The kettle has been preserved as a relic by the Wright family. It hangs
in the upper part of the old mansion, and is so arranged that by pulling
a cord below, the flat iron strikes against it, and so awakens the
servants. And this story, which began with a tirade against bells, ends
in finding its beloved kettle transformed into one; yet to the whole
line and genealogy of the Wrights, by whom it has been cherished, it has
brought its blessing of faith and hope, and though but a bit of sounding
brass, yet in all its history to these presents it lacketh not that
charity which is love.

LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.

A ROMAN PICTURE.

Close to the window I wheel my chair,
In the afternoon, when my work is done,
To get my breath of the scented air,
To take my share of the Roman sun:
The air that, over yon mossy wall,
Brings me the sweetness of orange bloom,
The sun whose going carries us all
Out of a glory into a gloom.

Calm in the light of the waning day,
And peaceful, the convent garden lies;
There, on the hillside cold and gray,
The frowning walls and the old towers rise.
To and fro in the wind's soft breath
The bending ivy sways and swings;
To and fro on the slope beneath
The Roman pine its shadow flings.

To and fro the white clouds drift
Over the old roof gray with moss,
Over the sculptured saints that lift
Each to the sky his marble cross,
Over the stern old belfry tower,
Where, from its prison house of stone,
A pale-faced clock marks hour by hour
The changes that the years have shown.

Free glad birds this prison share,
White doves in this old tower dwell.
Not