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 marvel! On the darken'd page The verse which thrice she had essayed to read Now shone illuminate, silver-clear, as though God's hand had written it with the flash of stars. MARGARET J. PRESTON. OUR HOME IN THE TYROL. CHAPTER V. We had not gone many yards when we noticed a grand old mansion with gray slopes of roof and stone galleries on arched pillars, and, asking its history, learned that it was a deserted seat of the counts of Arlberg, inhabited now by our guide in quality of forester, and where he had his sister Nanni and brother Hansel to live with him. We kept gradually ascending by the side of deep, turfy meadows, passing many a rich brown wooden chalet, with views ever and anon of our distant village and its stately Hof. Soon we turned into a woody gorge and began climbing the steep saddle of the Scharst; and as we slowly toiled upward in the pleasant summer air, amongst the aromatic fir trees, some verses came into my head out of a little German book, _Jakob Stainer_, by Herr Reif, which we had given as a parting present to Schuster Alois: The fiddle-maker Stainer Goes whistling on his way: A master like to Stainer Is not found every day. He passes lofty beech trees, And old oaks stout and good, Because that which he seeks for Grows not in every wood. But yonder in the sunshine, Above the dark green shade, Behold a hazel-fir tree-- "Jörgel," said I, "as you are a forester and know all the trees in the wood, I wish you would show me a hazel-fir tree."