e went up stairs and found Mrs. Rosewarne alone. These two looked at
each other: that single glance told everything. They were both aware
of the secret that had been revealed.

For an instant there was dead silence between them, and then Mrs.
Rosewarne, with a great sadness in her voice, despite its studied
calmness, said, "Mr. Trelyon, we need say nothing of what has
occurred. There are some things that are best not spoken of. But I
can trust to you not to seek to see Wenna before you leave here. She
is quite recovered--only a little nervous, you know, and frightened.
To-morrow she will be quite well again."

"You will bid her good-bye for me?" he said.

But for the tight clasp of the hand between these two, it was an
ordinary parting. He put on his hat and went out. Perhaps it was the
cold sea-air that made his face so pale.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

LA MADONNA DELLA SEDIA.

A TRADITION.

Raphael. Still in this free, clear air that vision floats
Before my brain. I may nor banish it
Nor grasp it. 'Tis too fine, too spirit-like,
To offer as the type of motherhood.
Color and blood and life and truth it lacks.
Gods! can it be that our imaginings
Excel your handiwork? Must life seem dull,
Must earth seem barren and unbeautiful,
For ever unto him who can create
This rarer world of delicate phantasy?
I lift mine eyes, and nothing real responds
To those ideal forms. God pardon me!
There in the everlasting sunshine sits
The Mother with the Infant at her breast.
Hence, ghostly shadows! let me learn to draw
Mine inspiration from the common air.
A peasant-woman auburn-haired, large-eyed,
Within the shade of overhanging boughs
Suckles her babe, and sees her eldest born
Gambol upon the grass: the elf has wrought
With two snapt boughs the semblance of a cross,
And proudly holds the sacred symbol high
Above his head to win his mother's praise.
Mine art may haply reproduce that wealth
Of brilliant hues--the dusk hair's glimmering gold,
The auroral blush, the bare breasts shining white
Where the babe's warm rose-face is pressed against
That fount of generous life; but ah! what craft
May paint the unearthly peace upon her brow,
The holy love that from her dark moist orbs
Beams with no lesser glory than the eyes
Of the Maid-Mother toward her heaven-born Child.

_Little Boy with the Cross_.
Oh, mother, such a stranger comes this way!
I saw him a