beauty will finally glow out in fulness."

At what cost, were bought the blessings so long pined for! Early in
the summer of 1848, Margaret left Rome for Aquila, a small, old town,
once a baronial residence, perched among the mountains of Abruzzi. She
thus sketches her retreat:--

"I am in the midst of a theatre of glorious, snow-crowned
mountains, whose pedestals are garlanded with the olive and
mulberry, and along whose sides run bridle-paths, fringed with
almond groves and vineyards. The valleys are yellow with saffron
flowers; the grain fields enamelled with the brilliant blue
corn-flower and red poppy. They are of intoxicating beauty, and
like nothing in America. The old genius of Europe has so mellowed
even the marbles here, that one cannot have the feeling of holy
virgin loneliness, as in the New World. The spirits of the dead
crowd me in most solitary places. Here and there, gleam churches
or shrines. The little town, much ruined, lies on the slope of a
hill, with the houses of the barons gone to decay, and unused
churches, over whose arched portals are faded frescoes, with the
open belfry, and stone wheel-windows, always so beautiful. Sweet
little paths lead away through the fields to convents,--one of
Passionists, another of Capuchins; and the draped figures of the
monks, pacing up and down the hills, look very peaceful. In the
churches still open, are pictures, not by great masters, but of
quiet, domestic style, which please me much, especially one of the
Virgin offering her breast to the child Jesus. There is often
sweet music in these churches; they are dressed with fresh
flowers, and the incense is not oppressive, so freely sweeps
through them the mountain breeze."

Here Margaret remained but a month, while Ossoli was kept fast by
his guard duties in Rome. "_Addio, tutto caro_," she writes; "I shall
receive you with the greatest joy, when you can come. If it were
only possible to be nearer to you! for, except the good air and the
security, this place does not please me." And again:--"How much I
long to be near you! You write nothing of yourself, and this makes me
anxious and sad. Dear and good! I pray for thee often, now that it
is all I can do for thee. We must hope that Destiny will at last
grow weary of persecuting. Ever thy affectionate." Meantime Ossoli
writes:--"Why do you not send me tidings of yourself,