On their wedding day they visited the site of the old homestead. There, in the hollow that had been the cellar, lay the old brass kettle, and in it a flat-iron that had fallen off Mary's ironing-board. The wort with which the kettle had been filled had prevented it from entirely melting, and since she could not dance in it at her sister's wedding, she was lifted in it now by her husband and danced in it at her own. The kettle has been preserved as a relic by the Wright family. It hangs in the upper part of the old mansion, and is so arranged that by pulling a cord below, the flat iron strikes against it, and so awakens the servants. And this story, which began with a tirade against bells, ends in finding its beloved kettle transformed into one; yet to the whole line and genealogy of the Wrights, by whom it has been cherished, it has brought its blessing of faith and hope, and though but a bit of sounding brass, yet in all its history to these presents it lacketh not that charity which is love. LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY. A ROMAN PICTURE. Close to the window I wheel my chair, In the afternoon, when my work is done, To get my breath of the scented air, To take my share of the Roman sun: The air that, over yon mossy wall, Brings me the sweetness of orange bloom, The sun whose going carries us all Out of a glory into a gloom. Calm in the light of the waning day, And peaceful, the convent garden lies; There, on the hillside cold and gray, The frowning walls and the old towers rise. To and fro in the wind's soft breath The bending ivy sways and swings; To and fro on the slope beneath The Roman pine its shadow flings. To and fro the white clouds drift Over the old roof gray with moss, Over the sculptured saints that lift Each to the sky his marble cross, Over the stern old belfry tower, Where, from its prison house of stone, A pale-faced clock marks hour by hour The changes that the years have shown. Free glad birds this prison share, White doves in this old tower dwell. Not for them the call to prayer, Not for them the warning bell. As they flit about the eaves, How their white wings catch the sun! While below through orange leaves Gleams the white cap of the nun. Spotless kerchief, gown of gray, Forehead wrapped in band of white: These must labor, watch, and pray, These must keep the cross in sight; These are they who walk apart, Who, with purpose undefiled, Seek to fill a woman's heart Without home or love or child. Is it true that many hands Find that rosary a chain? True that 'neath these snowy bands Throbs, full oft, a restless brain? True that simple robe of gray Covers oft a troubled breast? True that pain and passion's sway Enters even to this rest?