“That is a very pleasant feeling,” the Signora said calmly, “and, to an extent, may be a virtue. But do you not think that we should have also a feeling of awe in view of that splendid faith of theirs, and of that sublime constancy and ardent charity, which led them to face torments and death without flinching, while our lives seem but a series of compromises, and dispensations from everything that does not agree with our delicate and pampered natures? It seems to me that, if we remember the difference between our lives and theirs, we shall almost expect that when we approach their shrines they will perform one miracle more, and speak an audible reproof to us.” The lady looked disconcerted and a little displeased. But, some one interrupting them, the subject was dropped. After they were gone Mr. Vane displayed a letter he had received that day from the prior of Monte Cassino, inviting him and his family to visit their monastery. This clergyman had been on very friendly terms with Mr. Vane in America, where he had spent a good many years, and now, hearing of his conversion, was anxious to renew a friendship which would have a charm it had not before possessed, and to welcome to a brotherhood of faith one who had always been kin to him by a community of generous nature. “He writes that we can stay a few days on the mountain and see everything there at our leisure,” Mr. Vane said. “There is a house outside the gate where you ladies can stop, and I can have a bed inside. What do you say to it?” The invitation was accepted by acclamation. Monte Cassino was one of the places to see in Italy—a gem of nature, religion, and art. Before sleeping that night their plans were made. They would put off the visit a little, hoping for cooler days, as the journey was one of five or six hours. Meantime they had a little trip to Genzano in view, to see the _festa_ of the Santissimo Salvatore. And close upon them was Santa Maria delle Neve. To Be Continued. “MAY-FLOWERS.” Dear Mother, on our country’s breast— Our country that is thine— Our poets place as scutcheon flower Small argent stars that shine With pallid light when scarcely wake The leaf-buds from their sleep, When, nursing summer’s waiting bloom, The storm-stained leaves lie deep. Fair, little stars that faintly gleam Like planets sunset-dimmed, The dearer for their glory scant On barren heavens limned. Pale May-flowers, whose stainless cheek Seems born of winter snow— One rosy drop of living blood Flushing the veins below. Whose faint-breathed perfume seems to rise Like prayer of anchorite, The heart that pours its incense forth Low hidden from our sight; Whose sweetness seems like nimbus pale Crowning some saintly head, The light of self-forgotten life In holy odor shed.