stronger giving up his share to the weaker, the son hoarding his scanty rations against the day of still scantier supplies, when there would be scarcely food enough to support the weakened frame of an aged father or mother, talking big about the impossibility of surrender, and lightly about the price of resistance. There were mothers in Paris, too, and wherever mothers are there is sure to be found self‐sacrifice in its loveliest, divinest form. How many of them toiled and sweated, aye, and begged, subduing all pride to love for the little ones, who ate their fill and knew nothing of the cruel tooth that was gnawing the bread‐winner’s vitals! We who heard the thunder of the artillery and the blasting shout of the mitrailleuse, we did not hear these things, but other ears did, and not a note of the sweet music was lost, angels were hearkening for them, and as they rose above the dark discord, like crystal bells tolling in the storm wind, the white‐winged messengers caught them on golden lyres and wafted them on to paradise. To Be Continued. On A Picture Of S. Mary Bearing Doves To Sacrifice. My eyes climb slowly up, as by a stair, To seek a picture on my chamber wall— A picture of the Mother of our Lord, Hung where the latest twilight shadows fall. My lifted eyes behold a childlike face, Under a veil of woman’s holiest thought, O’ershadowed by the mystery of grace, And mystery of mercy—God hath wrought. Down through the dim old temple, moving slow, Her drooping lids scarce lifted from the ground, As if she faintly heard the distant flow Of far‐off seas of grief she could not sound. I think archangels would not count it sin If, underneath the veil that hides her eyes, They, seeing all things, saw the soul within Held more of mother‐love than sacrifice. She walks erect, the virgin undefiled, Back from her throat the loose robe falls apart, And e’en as she would clasp her royal Child, She holds the dovelets to her tender heart. No white wing trembles ’neath her pitying palm, No feather flutters in this last warm nest, And thus she bears them on—while solemn psalm Wakes dim, prophetic stirrings in her breast. Sweet Hebrew mother! many a woman shares, Thy crucifixion of her hopes and loves, And in her arms to death unshrinking bears Her precious things—even her turtle‐doves. But often, ere the temple’s marble floor Has ceased the echo of her parting feet, Her gifts prove worthless—thine is ever more The gift of gifts—transcendent and complete. We mothers, too, have treasures all our own, And, one by one, oft see them sacrificed: Thou, Blessed among women—thou alone Hast held within thine arms the dear Child‐Christ.