snows, into the storms to look for the wanderers and bring
them to a shelter--

* * * * *

Have mercy on my soul--she whispered--Forgive--

THE Andante far away--calling--Dasha--a reward--

DASHA IVANOVNA died on a bed of snow--On her dead face was a triumphant
sweet look.

THE fugitives wept and prayed as they buried her in the woods.

WHEN summer came bluebells grew over her grave.

THE MAD ARTIST

FAINTLY--

SPEAK, speak--Angel or demon, or both, speak to me before I throw you
into the sea.

THE storm raged in all its fury around the house, and the rain beat
down--

SPEAK, or I'll break you into a thousand pieces.

BUT the only answer was the smile of the Angel with the uplifted eyes
and the outspread wings as if she was about to ascend to Heaven. The
marble Angel that was to have been his masterpiece! His last gift to man
was now his hated treasure.

NIGHT came on and with it the fury of the storm increased--and still the
mad artist now implored, now threatened. The Angel smiled and looked
Heavenward.

WHEN I chose a model for my masterpiece, he murmured, she was beautiful,
but had not the face of that Angel. How came I to copy the image in my
heart and not the living one that for months was each day here in my
studio.

THE storm raged without, and within the artist groped for light, clung
to the shreds of memory. His madness was increasing, his head seemed
miles away. What had he been thinking of just then, had he seen a woman
rise from a tomb--no, it was the Angel.

HE must get to work and finish it. But it was finished. Vaguely he
remembered dismissing his model.

SPEAK--with a faint cry of anguish he rushed to the statue. Speak, image
of my lost Louise! But no, you are cold marble, you have no life, no
warmth--

STILL, it must be the girl I loved. It is her mouth, her eyes.

THE wind moaned around the house, seeming to call the name of Louise.
The mad artist wept, and groped for light, for memory. Vaguely he could
see, 'way back in some half-forgotten period, a nurse leaning over his
cot. The noise of battle still rang in his ears--but that was all past,
in his other life--now there were phantoms and the image in his heart of
the lost Louise. Why had he chosen that name. That name made him think
of running water. Where was reverie--Oh yes, it was the statue--well it
must die. Never should men see his masterpiece that had cost him all the
joy of