anner of its
expression; yet they must render this expression as perfectly as the
present conditions allow. But I think I have talked before of just this
thing. And we must turn again to Tintoretto."

Not only this forenoon, but many others, were spent in the Scuola di San
Rocco in the study of Tintoretto's paintings. At first they shuddered at
his most vivid representations of poor, sick, wretched beings that cover
these immense canvases dedicated to the memory of St. Roch, whose life
was devoted to hospital work; then were fascinated by the power that had
so ruthlessly portrayed reality. They studied his great
_Crucifixion_,--as a whole, in detailed groups, and then its separate
figures,--until they began to realize the magnitude of its conception
and rendering. Mr. Sumner had said that nowhere save in Venice can
Tintoretto be studied, and all were anxious to understand his work.

At the Academy, close by Titian's great _Assumption of the Virgin_,
they found Tintoretto's _Miracle of St. Mark_, and saw how noble could
be, at their best, his composition and drawing, and how marvellous his
coloring of sky, architecture, costume, and flesh. They went to the
various churches, notably, Santa Maria del Orto, to see good examples of
his religious painting; and to the Ducal Palace for his many
mythological pictures, and his immense _Paradiso_. Finally they were
happy in feeling that they could comprehend, in some little degree, the
spirit of this strange, powerful artist and his work.

One rainy evening, toward the close of their stay in Venice, all sat in
the parlor, discussing a most popular novel recently published. It was
written in an exceedingly clever manner; indeed, possessed an unusual
degree of literary merit. But like many other books then being sent
forth, the tale was very sad.

The hero, Richard,--poor, proud, and painfully morbid,--would not
believe it possible that the woman whom he passionately loved,--a woman
whose life was filled with luxury, and who was surrounded by
admirers,--could ever love him; and so he went out from her and all the
possibilities of happiness, never to know that her heart was his and
might have been had for the asking. The happiness of both lives was
wrecked.

"I think no author ought to write such a story," said Mrs. Douglas,
emphatically. "Life holds too much that is sad for us all to justify the
expenditure of so much unavailing sympathy. The emotion that cannot work
itself ou