ace of an angel. They say the king was healed as he
looked, and that the wonderful light shone above them and was with them
always,--forever.

Where the quiet colored end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles.

--_Robert Browning._

[Illustration: _By Jean Francois Millet_

THE ANGELUS]

THE ANGELUS.

Every evening after sunset, when the most wonderful soft light is in the
sky and it is very still everywhere, the old bell in the steeple chimes
out over the village and the fields around. No one quite knows what the
evening bell sings, but the tone is so beautiful that everyone stands
still and listens.

Ever since the oldest grandfather can remember, the dear bell has sung
at evening and everyone has listened, and listened, for the message.

A great many people said there was really no message at all, and one
very learned man wrote a whole book to show that the song of the evening
bell was nothing but the clanging of brass and iron; and almost everyone
who read it believed it. But there were many who were not wise enough to
read, so they listened to the sweet tone just as lovingly as they had
listened when they were little children.

Sometimes when the sweet song pealed out, the old shoemaker would forget
and leave his thread half drawn, and while he listened a wonderful
smiling light shone in his face. But whenever the little grandson asked
him what the bell said to him, the old man only shook his head and
pulled the stitch through and sewed on and on, until there was not any
more light; and for this reason the little boy began to think that the
bell was singing something about work. He thought of it very often when
he sat on his grandfather's step listening to the song and watching the
people. Sometimes those who had read the learned book spoke together and
laughed quite loudly, to show that they were not paying any attention to
the bell; and there were others who seemed not to hear it at all. But
there were some who listened just as the old grandfather had listened,
and many who stopped and bowed their heads and stood quite still for a
long, long while. But the strangest was, that no one ever could tell the
other what the bell had sung to him. It was really a very deep mystery.

Now there was a painter who had such loving eyes that even when he
looked on homely, lowly things, he saw wonder that no one else could
see. He loved all the sweet mysteries that are in the world, and h