to determine for herself, and she had done so.
Ever since she had become a mother, she had felt as if separated from
the rest of the world. When she thought of her child and, above all,
when she clasped it to her heart, she felt as if nothing more remained
to be done. She and the child were her world; all else was as nothing.
And yet she loved the king with all her heart, and ardently desired
that their union should might be so complete that they be one in
feeling, in belief, and in affection.

The thought that they ought to be united in all things, constantly grew
upon her. Father, mother and child should be as one, praying to the
same God, with the same thoughts, and in the same words.

The isolation of the sick chamber only helped to strengthen these
thoughts, and, now that she was about to return to the world, she
longed to make the bond that united her to the king, perfect in the
highest sense.

She was allowed to do but little talking, and, therefore, did not
indulge in conversation. After a few days had passed, she had a
Madonna, by Filippo Lippi the younger, brought to her dimly lighted
chamber. She gazed at the picture for hours, and it seemed to be
looking at her in return--the two mothers were one in bliss.

The canon visited her and found her in this devotional frame of mind.
With trembling lips, she confided to him her desire to belong to the
church of her husband and child. He lent a ready assent to the request
that she might be spared all dogmatic teachings. When the canon had
left, she became oppressed with a sense of fear. There goes a man,
thought she, who bears my secret with him. He had promised to keep it
to himself and thus prove himself worthy her confidence. But the secret
had, nevertheless, ceased to be entirely her own.

She soon quieted her fears, and a glow of delight overspread her
features at the thought that, although she was now a mother, there was
yet another sublime and exalted function which would perfect her union
with her husband and furnish one more proof of her great love for him.

In the fullness of life, the thought of death occurred to her, and she
ordered another painting to be placed on the easel before her. It was
the Maria AEgyptica, by Riberia.

The queen often felt as if she must seek the glance of the penitent.
But those eyes, instead of beholding aught, seem as if listening: not
in alarm, for an angel is calling to her--but submissive and trustful,
for she is us