Rosalind stood still, and looked at him in silence, looked him through and through.

Oh, Willie !" she said weariedly then, " I did not know you could be so selfish, paint black so nearly white as this. Remember how soon a woman is marked as a flirt,-how soon a man forgiven,—after a broken engagement. I shall simply tell our story at the rectory, and leave them to judge between us; and, loving you so deeply as they do, having had but your sake to be so kind to me for,—I—I must not wonder if even they think me far the more to blame in the matter and give me up. At least you will tell your view of the question first, I shall see no one more to-night.-Good-bye.

وو

She did not this time hold out her hand, nor he attempt to take it. He looked at her, saw how white and haggard was the sweet blithe face that had originally won his heart; how firm and vigorous the will that amidst mental and bodily pain made her determined to keep her composure, even remain standing till he was gone. He turned to leave

her, and then turned back to say heartily,

"Rose, I speak truly, you are the only woman I ever thoroughly respected, to whom I ever gave my heart :—and oh, take care of yourself, don't neglect that cough!" and with that he was gone, and Rose sank down to bury her face in her hands with one deep sigh.

How long her father had left her alone she did not know he came in after some ten minutes' pause, guessing from Mr. Bickerstaffe's abrupt departure, Rosalind's silence, how that interview from which he had hoped so much had ended.

My poor darling," he said, putting his arm round her, so I am still to keep my precious little daughter."

Yes, oh yes, I only hope he will marry Miss Thornton, not go and break another woman's heart.-I-I wonder how it was I did not see from the beginning that he was not perfectly true. I could have forgiven him anything if he had been true even to-night!" and she sighed heavily.

'And now, my darling, go to bed; you are not fit to be standing about like this."

"No, I shall be glad to go to bed. Say good-night to the boys, please. It is one comfort to think, papa, not you, nor Rex, nor Mike ever thoroughly liked him; yours was the true instinct, you see," and so she kissed him and went her way.

"Poor child! she forgets another side to the picture! the facing

Cropworth with this engagement known but to be cancelled. Well, Mistresses Gray and Cherry will be so triumphant it's cruel to be already grudging them their pleasure. No! I never did thoroughly like the fellow, but, for all that, I find I like a broken engagement less!"

THE DESCENT INTO HELL.

THE last faint sigh upon the Cross is breathed,
Is bowed in death, the noble Suffering Head,
Around Whose brow the thorny crown is wreathed,
And JESU, "GOD of Very GOD," is dead,

The glorious work of man's redemption won,
The broken law fulfilled, by death of God's own SON.

That sacred Body mangled, bleeding, torn,
By loving hands all tenderly arrayed,
And wrapped in linen fair, is gently borne
To rest within the garden's rocky shade,
There silent in the tomb, the GOD-Man sleeps,

While Roman sentries watch-and holy Mary weeps.

She weeps, and mournfully her loss deplores,
Nor thinks her buried LORD again will rise,
But lo! within the everlasting doors,

The King of Glory enters Paradise.

Satan in vain has barred those gates of brass,

They lift their heads, that CHRIST the Crucified may pass.
There dwells the Godhead, with that patient throng
Of Saints, and Martyrs, Kings and Prophets blest,
Who sing with voice subdued, their heavenly song,
And wait in hope of their eternal rest,

They worship round Him, and implore His grace,
And rest their loving eyes on His tear-stainèd face.

There sees the SAVIOUR too, that countless host,
Of all who died unpardoned, unforgiven,

Of fallen Angels, and of devils lost

Who, 'gainst the Majesty of GOD have striven,

Ah! even in Hell they feel the Mighty Power

Of Him Whom giant death holds but one passing hour.

But three short days, and lo! the gates again
Have opened wide-the conquering King has passed,

And every soul, whose sins their LORD have slain,
The blest and curs'd alike have looked their last,
Till that dread day, when every eye shall see
The spotless Lamb as Judge, in glorious Majesty.

N. B.

CORREGGIO'S EASTER PICTURE.

WHERE the picturesque range of the Apennine mountains runs down into the lovely valleys of the large plain watered by the river Po, between the towns of Parma and Reggio, there rode slowly along through the gathering darkness on the holy Easter Eve of the year 1529 a powerful-looking, handsome man, mounted on one of those strong borses which used to be employed for long journeys. Judging from his cavalier-like attire he must have belonged to the higher ranks of society. His beautiful, pale, finely-chiselled countenance wore a gloomy expression, and his high, noble forehead was wrinkled; his luxuriant black hair and his youthful, elastic bearing would however soon have corrected the error into which any one would have fallen, who had judged his age by the old, worn look on his features.

He was a man in the vigorous prime of life, at the most forty-five years of age, but either passions or care had early obliterated from his face, if they had ever been present there, any signs of human love and kindness. As he rode through the principal street of the town, and had just reached the bridge which spans the rushing, foaming Enza, the last faint, trembling light of the parting day became extinguished on the western horizon, and a strangely beautiful blending of colours began to deck sky and earth; the rider suddenly drew up his steed in order to watch with animated eyes this luminous gulf of light and darkness, and he drank in with rapture the enchanting spectacle. His saddened features lighted up, his eye flamed; and let him who would wonder at this sudden enthusiasm know that the rider was Antonio Allegri, the great painter of Correggio, the master in the province of lights and of the magic of chiaro-oscuro.

He was on his way from Parma, where he had just finished in the dome of the cathedral his greatest work, the "Assumption of the Virgin," the Apostles being witnesses of the event below; and he was now travelling towards Correggio, his home. But this painting had

not repaid the master for the labour he had expended on it; it was in its boldness of design and masterliness of execution understood by few; the members of the cathedral chapter found much in it to criticise and find fault with; he had parted from them in discord, and with wounded artist's pride had left his work only half completed. The not too delicate-minded inhabitants of Parma with their homely ideas of art had even amused themselves by making bad jokes respecting the dome-painting. Correggio had represented the floating angelic and cherub host which surrounded the queen of heaven as straining upwards, and their figures were shortened to attain this effect, so that only the feet were visible to spectators underneath, and this excited the raillery of the people who nicknamed the figures "hop-frogs." All this had reached the sensitive ears of the artist, and highly incensed he received the clerical criticism rudely, and as just at this time also his beloved wife was torn from his side by the ruthless hand of Death, he suddenly broke his engagement to finish the dome, and decided, with his broken heart yearning for quiet, to go back to his native town and there pass the evening of his life in retirement. On his way thither we meet him, but depressed and heart-sick though he be, his artist eye cannot gaze into this stream of glorious golden evening light without kindling with enthusiasm.

He remained on the Enza bridge gazing until the sun was down, and the rapidly increasing darkness warned him to seek a lodging for the night; he then put spurs to his tired steed and rode quickly forward. Darker and darker it grew, when suddenly as he emerged from a little copse, a small church with brilliantly lighted windows was visible at the right, close to him. As he rode towards it the solemn peal of the organ and the chant of the monks assembled for vespers struck on his ear. It was a little retired cloister to whose gate a rarely trodden side-path conducted him. He dismounted, and at his knock a white-bearded monk opened the gate, and in reply to his request for a night's lodging bade him welcome. The monk unbuckled his heavy travelling-bag and committed his horse to the care of a lay-brother who was passing, and himself conducted him to the unostentatious guest's chamber of the convent, then went away to inform the prior of his arrival and to prepare some refreshment for the traveller.

The prior, a dignified old man with snow-white hair soon appeared and greeted him with a friendly welcome, a lay-brother brought him a goblet of generous wine and a plate with bread and fruit, and the

wanderer was heartily invited to refresh himself, the prior meantime taking a seat by his side, declining however as was his rule to share his meal with him, but quite willing to indulge in a friendly têteà-tête.

66

'Who may you be, noble stranger ?" began the old man, and what has brought you hither, and wherein can I serve you ?"

Worthy father," replied the painter, "it avails not to tell you my name, I am called 'vivacity,' (Allegri,) but I am not what they call me, I am a painter, and people praise my pictures and say that in them lie wonders of light and colour, and that life and joy sparkle in them. may be, but I am not what I paint; in my pictures I seem to come out of myself; I paint in order to forget what I am. My art is bright and joyous, but my mind is dark and melancholy."

It

From your words, noble guest, I perceive that the great and farfamed painter Antonio of Correggio is before me, and I rejoice that our poor convent is honoured with your presence," said the prior.

Yes," replied Antonio, "I am that man, but how can I bring honour or anything good to you? Ah! I wish indeed that I might seek and find with you a something for which my whole soul yearns. I am a poor unhappy man.”

'What can you, the much honoured master of your art, the friend and favourite of princes and nobles, lack, which this poor convent could give you ?"

'What I want, worthy father, is peace for my soul. Yes, I have enjoyed much fame and honour, I am satisfied with my outward lot, but what I need, and what even my glorious art cannot give me, is an inward, firm peace of mind. And just now, when I have lost by death my beloved wife, and the vulgarity and meanness of coarse-minded men have attacked with rude hands my dearly won artist fame, now it has all at once become quite clear to me that I am indeed poor and helpless. I cannot even find comfort or pleasure in the smiling lightenveloped figures of my cherubs and angels, they give no peace to my heart. Where is the source from which you draw your cheerful happy calm, worthy father?"

"My friend," replied the prior earnestly, "I have not yet overcome the world, I bear it still in me, although these convent walls shut me off from its outward contact. But God be thanked, I have Him Who has overcome the world, and Him you also could and should seek and lay hold of."