Each syllable and drain its separate sweetness,
When, breaking on her still seclusion, came
A messenger: "Sweet mistress, grace I pray!
But unaware our lord hath come again,
Bringing his gossips; and he bade me fetch
My lady, if only for a one half hour,
Saying the wine was flavorless without
Her hand to pour it."
At the word she rose,
And unreluctant followed. No undertow
Of hidden regret disturbed the azure calm
Of those clear eyes that still reflected heaven.
Then, when they all had drunk and been refreshed,
And forth had ridden, Francesca sought her place,
And pored again above the Psalter's leaf:
"_In voluntate tua deduxisti_,"
Conning it over with a tender joy,
As if she verily felt her human hand
Close claspt in God's, and heard Him guiding her
With audible counsel; when there fell a touch
Upon her arm: "The Sister Barbara
Comes seeking wherewithal to dress some wounds
Got in a brawl upon the Esquiline."

And now athwart the western windows streamed
Rainbows of shafted light, as thither again
Francesca came to read her "Offices."
A beam, that seemed a golden pencil held
Within the fingers of the Christ that glowed
In the great oriel, pointed to the words
Where she had paused to do the Sister's hest:
"_Cum gloria suscepisti me_." She kissed
The blazoned leaf, thanks nestling at her heart,
That now, at last, no duty disallowing,
Her loosened soul out through the sunset bars
Might float, and catch heaven's crystal shimmer. But scarce
Had meditation smoothed the wing of thought
Before the hangings of the door were parted
With yet a further summoning. From a Triton
That spouted in the court her three-year boy,
Who thither had climbed, had fallen, and naught would soothe
The bruised brow save the sweet mother-kiss.

"I come," she said, her forehead half divine
With saintly patience. "For Thou wouldst teach me, Lord,
That Thou art just as near me ministering
At home as in these consecrated aisles;
And 'tis true worship, pouring of the wine
For him I love, or holding 'twixt my hands
The little throbbing head; since where my duty
Calls is the altar where I serve Thee best."

When under the Campagna's purple rim
The sun had sunken so long that all was gray,
Softly across the dusky sacristy
Francesca glided back. The Psalter lay
Scarcely discernible amid the gloom;
But lo the ma