So she went out on this Saturday and managed to get rid of the requisite number, and carrying the money as usual to the owner, received a few pence commission. There was an eager look in her pale face as she hurried home and hastened to the box on the mantel-shelf. She emptied its contents into her hand, quickly counted up the total of her fortune, and then crept out again. It was snowing heavily, but she did not mind. The soft flakes fell on her weary face, and she liked their warm touch. She hurried along until she came to a tiny grocer's shop. The red spot on her checks deepened as she asked the shopkeeper for twelve candles--"Tall ones, please," she said in a whisper. She pushed the money on to the counter and ran away home with her parcel. Then she went up to the figure against the wall, and gently placed it on the ground, away from the wall. She opened the parcel and carefully stood up the twelve candles in a little avenue, six each side of the dead man. With a feverous excitement in her eyes she pulled a match from her pocket and lit them. They burned steadily and brightly, casting a yellow light over the cold naked room, and over the blackened face of the dead man. The child that was rolling on the floor at the other end of the room uttered a coo of joy at the bright lights, and stretched out his tiny hands towards them. And the face of the mother was filled with a divine pleasure. The articles of her faith had been fulfilled. Three Pictures By P. Wilson Steer I. Portrait of Himself II. A Lady III. A Gentleman [Illustration: Portrait of Himself] [Illustrations: A Lady, and A Gentleman] In a Gallery Portrait of a Lady (Unknown) By Katharine de Mattos Veiled eyes, yet quick to meet one glance Not his, not yours, but _mine_, Lips that are fain to stir and breathe Dead joys (not love nor wine): 'Tis not in _you_ the secret lurks That makes men pause and pass! Did unseen magic flow from you Long since to madden hearts, And those who loathed remain to pray And work their dolorous parts-- To seek your riddle, dread or sweet, And find it in the grave? Till some one painted you one day, Perchance to ease his soul, And set you here to weave your spells While time and silence roll; And you were hungry for the hour When one should understand? Your jewelled fingers writhe and gleam From out your sombre vest; Am I the first of those who gaze, Who may their meaning guess, Yet dare not whisper lest the words Pale even painted cheeks? The Yellow Book A Criticism of Volume I By Philip Gilbert Hamerton, LL.D. I--The Literature