For an instant there was dead silence between them, and then Mrs. Rosewarne, with a great sadness in her voice, despite its studied calmness, said, "Mr. Trelyon, we need say nothing of what has occurred. There are some things that are best not spoken of. But I can trust to you not to seek to see Wenna before you leave here. She is quite recovered--only a little nervous, you know, and frightened. To-morrow she will be quite well again." "You will bid her good-bye for me?" he said. But for the tight clasp of the hand between these two, it was an ordinary parting. He put on his hat and went out. Perhaps it was the cold sea-air that made his face so pale. [TO BE CONTINUED.] LA MADONNA DELLA SEDIA. A TRADITION. Raphael. Still in this free, clear air that vision floats Before my brain. I may nor banish it Nor grasp it. 'Tis too fine, too spirit-like, To offer as the type of motherhood. Color and blood and life and truth it lacks. Gods! can it be that our imaginings Excel your handiwork? Must life seem dull, Must earth seem barren and unbeautiful, For ever unto him who can create This rarer world of delicate phantasy? I lift mine eyes, and nothing real responds To those ideal forms. God pardon me! There in the everlasting sunshine sits The Mother with the Infant at her breast. Hence, ghostly shadows! let me learn to draw Mine inspiration from the common air. A peasant-woman auburn-haired, large-eyed, Within the shade of overhanging boughs Suckles her babe, and sees her eldest born Gambol upon the grass: the elf has wrought With two snapt boughs the semblance of a cross, And proudly holds the sacred symbol high Above his head to win his mother's praise. Mine art may haply reproduce that wealth Of brilliant hues--the dusk hair's glimmering gold, The auroral blush, the bare breasts shining white Where the babe's warm rose-face is pressed against That fount of generous life; but ah! what craft May paint the unearthly peace upon her brow, The holy love that from her dark moist orbs Beams with no lesser glory than the eyes Of the Maid-Mother toward her heaven-born Child. _Little Boy with the Cross_. Oh, mother, such a stranger comes this way! I saw him as I climbed the olive tree To break the branches for my crucifix-- tall, fair youth with floating yellow curls. Is he an angel? _Maria_. Silly darling, peace! No longer dwell the angels on the earth, And see, he comes. _Raphael_. Madonna mia, hail! God bless thee and thy cherubim! _Maria_. Amen! God bless thee also for the pious wish! No cherubim are these, but, Heaven be thanked, Two healthy boys. Pray, sit and rest with us: The heat has been too fierce for wayfarers, And 'neath these shady vines the afternoon Is doubly fresh. _Raphael_. Thanks, 'tis a grateful air: The weariness of travel it uplifts From heavy brow and body with its breath, Delicious as cool water to the touch.