In obedience to the curious sentiment which commands one to adorn one's self for all occasions, even the melancholy ones, Margherita had dressed herself in a rich robe of sombre hue. With great pains she had arranged her black hair, which set off to advantage the delicate pallor of the face revealing so much suffering. Upon her neck, which had so often disputed whiteness with pearls, she now wore her rosary, which seemed to outline the circle of the axe. In her hands she clasped the crucifix attached to the chapelet, and from this she never removed her eyes,--eyes which had always beamed with kindness and sweetness, but which were now full of sorrow. They could only look upon one object--the cross, the one hope of salvation. By her side was seated Buonvicino, even paler, if possible, than she. In his hand he held an image of the Crucified God who has suffered for us. From time to time he spoke some consoling words to the young victim,--a simple prayer such as our mothers have taught us in infancy, and which come to us again in the most critical moments of life:--"Savior, unto thee I yield my spirit. Maria, pray for me at the hour of death. Depart, Christian soul, from this world, which is but a place of exile, and return into that celestial country sanctified by thy suffering, so that angels may bear thee to Paradise!"... When Margherita appeared, every one exclaimed: "Oh, how beautiful she is! She is so young!" Then tears flowed. Many a silken handkerchief hid the eyes of fair ladies, and many a hand, accustomed to a sword, tried to retard tears. Every one looked towards Lucio to see if he would not wave a white handkerchief--the signal of pardon. Translated through the French by Esther Singleton, for the 'Library of the World's Best Literature.' GIOSUE CARDUCCI (1836-) BY FRANK SEWALL Rarely in the history of ancient or modern literature has a writer, while living, been so generally recognized by his countrymen as their national prophet as has the Italian poet and essayist Carducci. In January, 1896, he completed his thirty-fifth year as Professor of Belles-Lettres in the University of Bologna; and the solemn and brilliant festivities with which the event was celebrated, extending over three days and including congratulatory addresses from the king, from the municipality, from the students and graduates, from foreign universities, and from distinguished scholars at home and abroad, testified to the remarkable hold this poet has gained on the affections and esteem of the Italian people, and the deep impress his writing has made on the literature of our time.