Baglioni, have tried to sell your city in vain."

Baglioni gave a quick exclamation, made a step nearer her, felt Casella's hand upon his arm. There was a momentary crisis.

"Nera Ubbriachi!" The monk alone

seemed capable of speaking, for though the woman's face was still, it was rigid and deathly. "Heaven save your madness! What mean you?"

She was gazing steadily at the monk, heedless of the quick breathing behind her.

"Is the 'Magnificat' so new a prayer that a Franciscan monk needs to read it from a book?"

The breathing became faster; there was a movement, a cry, an instant's pause, then a second cry, broken and stifled, and Casella's deep, guttural"You devil!" as he flung a dagger clattering far on the marble floor.

All was betrayed. The man who was no monk, but a creature of Baglioni, sprang to his feet and dashed across the room-but she reached the dagger first and fled to Casella. Baglioni lay on his back, face upturned and still; the other, seeing this, stayed, saw the livid white

ness of Casella's face, fled past him through the open window on to the sunlit terrace beyond.

"God!" said Casella thickly. "He would have sold his city, and Clement would have none of him! Curse my blindness!"

"You did not know! Oh! Heaven!

Tell me you did not know!"

She was trembling violently, shaken from head to foot, speaking in a faint whisper. He was blind to everything but the deadly wrong done her.

"It was a trick-a damnable trick to cheat you give me that dagger!" He was livid.

"Oh, no! no! Oh, God! no!"

She was on her knees between her husband and the unconscious man. "Are such as he fit to live?"

He was lost in the storm of passion. "I will not have any part of you contaminated by such as he! Let him go! He will reap his own sowing. Geronimo, Geronimo! Have pity on me!"

He saw at last!

He said her name faintly, quickly, catching her two outstretched hands.

And that is why the "Magnificat" hangs in Casa San Domenico in its Cinque Cento frame.

W

HO has not heard of the invasion, during the stormy days of the Revolution, of the King's palace by the rabble that had congregated in the royal gardens at Verseilles? The crowds ransacked the royal apartments from floor to roof; everything that was not nailed down was stolen, and many a one present on that awful occasion, later on felt ashamed and little prized his booty, for stolen goods never profit the thief because the curse of God ever clings to them like some deadly, slimy thing.

One, especially, who had done his share of stealing had accidentally come upon a crucifix, which had been trampled into the ground by busy feet. At first he thought he had found something valuable, but upon closer scrutiny the crucifix seemed to him a worthless article, and when he came home he madly threw it into a corner of his dirty attic, filled with a useless accumulation of all sorts of articles of wood, iron and tin. And here the crucifix lay until 1834. In this year, the old sinner died. He had been a gardener by trade, and his familiar figure on the various street-corners was missed by many. Wife and children he had none, and thus his relatives placed all his possessions in the hands of a lawyer. Everything was to be auctioned off. The people came from all over the city, and the sale of goods began.

Now, in this same city lived a poor, young artist whose life-scenes were not overbright. They had a hint of cold, cheerless, autumn skies in them. He was clever, studious, and understood his art and the blending of colors perfectly. He had no money, he had no great friends, whose influence could do so

much for him-without this one cannot make it go in Paris at all-and often he sat without a bite of bread in his narrow little room in the attic on the Rue St. Antoine, and almost despaired.

Only a short time before, a wealthy aristocrat wanted one of his dancinghalls decorated in oils, and, on the verge of starvation, Pierrot eagerly took advantage of the opportunity-like a dying man clutching his last straw of hope.

A pious mother had early taught Pierrot how to pray, and when Want and Despair walked with him and touched him with their black, uncanny wings, he never faltered, but hoped on steadfastly; and Prayer came to him like some sweet, pure-faced maiden, in her eyes the glory of the sun and moon and stars, and on her lips the melodies of hope and joy— called forth by the artistic fingers of the Divine One. Want, suffering, sorrowglorious trinity-after all were sweet and dear to him. They brought him nearer to that Master-touch which controls all life and its various, mysterious, intricate feelings and emotions.

"The path of sorrow, and that path alone,

Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;

No traveller ever reached that blest abode

Who found not thorns or briars in his road."

Pierrot was pious and he remained so, and he kept his soul pure-free to think and act-white as the lily that raises herself gladly to her Creator. His companions mocked and mimicked him for keeping the Sabbath holy, for going to church and for staying the angry passions that they would not resist, but

through all this narrow, silly mockery he did not permit himself to go astray. He remained true to the finer impulses of his schooled heart.

Through many long night-watches, Pierrot's bed had been on a bundle of straw, but now, since his work on the millionaire's salon had brought him in some revenue, he determined to make good use of it. Only an hour since, he had heard of the sale in his neighborhood, and he made it his business to learn all particulars. The old gardener had been a cleanly old fellow, and rumor had it that, among many things, an almost new bed was to be auctioned off.

The young painter ran his pale, wasted fingers through his black hair, and for a moment was lost in thought. Suddenly a light came into his sad eyes. Turning, he unlocked his little bank and emptied the contents on the table. The paintings in the dancinghall had brought him exactly three hundred francs, and out of this he had already purchased necessary articles of clothing. A clear hundred francs were all he had left, and a sigh fell from his lips. "Will I be able to buy the bed after all?" he asked himself with trembling heart. At such sales-they are of regular daily occurrence in our large cities-the people swarm in by the hundreds, and often strange and wonderful things happen. Be there many bidders on hand, then the trash becomes expensive; be there a scarcity, then the good things go off for a little song almost.

And thus it came about at the sale in the neighborhood; the bidders were few, although the crowd was great, and Pierrot purchased bed, coverings and all for seventy-five francs. His heart quickened and rejoiced. Quickly he paid the money and ordered them to carry the goods to his cold, poorly-furnished apartments. No one was richer or happier than he now. Another twenty-five francs were still tickling the anxious

points of his finger-tips. "Return to the sale again?" he asked himself. "Perhaps I can buy something else that I need sorely." It was said-it was done. When Pierrot arrived, the sale was just about over. A few old things that had lain in the corner of the attic were now being offered amid much mockery and laughter. Now the auctioneer held up a crucifix that was old and used-looking, being furthermore covered here and there with lumps of dry earth. It passed along from one to the other-from hand to hand. "It is only lead," cried one. "I offer half-a-franc," cried another. "One franc!" yelled a third.

Pierrot trembled and chilled inwardly. "They spurn the picture of the Saviour, the sign of Redemption, because it is a little crude," he thought to himself, and loudly, so that every one with ears could hear him, he yelled: "Five francs!" The auctioneer handed him the crucifix with a derisive bow, and the artist paid his money, took his crucifix under his arm amid the hissing and mocking laughter of the crowd, and left, angry and trembling on account of the rudeness and behavior of these degenerates.

In the meantime, his landlady had been busy arranging his room; the bed was set up, and clean linens whitened the appearance of the humbly-furnished apartments. Everything looked fresh and cheerful, and as Pierrot stepped into the cozy atmosphere he felt like a new man. Gladly he placed the crucifix on the table, and then strode out into the air for a walk. The autumn clouds in his life-scene had shifted; there was a kindlier look on the face of nature. A radiant brightness now rested on sky, on field, on bird and flower, and his young heart fairly revelled in the light that shone beyond the white-capped clouds in the distant horizon. A new feeling was overpowering him-he felt it, he knew it, and it fairly set his nerves a-tingling. He was glad. In the future,

he already beheld his young life flowering in a gorgeous summer.

When Pierrot retired, a warm, brisk fire was burning in the grate, and for one night at least the poor artist down by the Rue St. Antoine slept like a king. When he awoke next morning, his eyes fell upon the dirt-bespattered crucifix. It should be cleaned and polished, he thought, and almost instantly he set to work. After he had cleaned the pedestal, his eyes discovered several engraved letters of the alphabet upon it.

He

cleaned and rubbed and polished, and presently the name "Benvenuto Cellini" appeared, engraved in large steady letters.

This Cellini was a Florentine-a very able man, whose name stood for all that was best in art. He was a noted sculptor, and his chisel and mallet only busied themselves for kings and royalty. His marbles were masterpieces and generally netted him high prices. He also worked much in gold and silver. One of the French queens had taken this very crucifix to Paris, and then to Versailles, from whence it was stolen by a thief the day the rabble stormed the gates of the royal palace, and accidentally dropped and trampled into the ground amid the howling populace. Here, mud-bespattered and trampled upon, but little the worse for wear, the gardener found it, later on, and threw it into a corner of his deserted attic, which was a mecca for all such wares. After all, if it were but plain copper, still it would be very valuable, if only for the Cellini imprimatur upon it. Pierrot knew, however, that Cellini had only worked in gold and silver, and at a glance felt that there was much in that simple, little crucifix. Hurriedly and joyfully, his fingers polished away, and soon it shone in the morning light-golden and full of promise-a veritable masterpiece of one of the great artists. Who will describe Pierrot's great surprise?

Across the street, but a few yards away, lived one of the city's most reliable jewelers. Another few minutes and the artist stood before him, crucifix in hand.

"Sir!" exclaimed the jeweller, "you have in your hands a treasure, firstly, because it is of the most artistic workmanship, secondly, because it is pure gold. Come, let me weigh it!"

To Pierrot's great surprise the jeweller told him that it weighed exactly twenty pounds.

"You are a rich man," the jeweller continued, "for the gold in the crucifix alone is worth fifty thousand francs. This I will gladly give you for it. But since it is also a great work of art, you can depend on getting sixty thousand, and perhaps still more. It all depends who the purchaser will be. I have a great many engagements with His Majesty, the King, and will do all I can for you.”

Pierrot thanked him kindly. On that very afternoon, he was on his way to the King. His coveted treasure under his arm, he tripped joyfully up the marble steps of the palace. When the King's eyes fell upon the golden crucifix, he was beyond himself in admiration of it, and at once bought it at a sum that had far exceeded the expectations of the humble worker in oils and crayons. And at the request of His Majesty, Pierrot told how he had happened to come upon the golden treasure.

The King listened with interest to the artist's story and praised him greatly for his piety. He also spoke to him about art in general, and expressed the wish that later on he might have some work on hand for him. "Do you know," at last broke forth His Majesty, "you may come to-morrow and paint my portrait."

After all this would help the young artist more than the sixty thousand francs, for now, at last, the opportunity was to come in which he could show the

world some of his work-an occasion in which he, thank God, was to appear in his true light before the eyes of men. Should his work please His Majesty, the King, then his success was secure in court circles, as well as in all Paris.

At the appointed hour, the artist was at work, palette and brush in hand, in the King's ante-chamber. First, he sketched the outlines of the royal face, and during the days that followed finally finished the picture to the great satis

faction of the King. The news of this spread like wild-fire, and the artist's name was on the lips of all the people. When Pierrot awoke one morning, he realized that Fame had been around in the nighttime and planted her crown upon his young forehead.

Who cannot recognize in this another instance in which the finger of God directed a worthy soul along a rugged pathway, into a land of happiness, sunshine and success?

HE came in the springtime to make

some money, but he was going home for Christmas. So he

told me in a few words of broken English. His name was Giovanni Trabucco, but, to the foreman of the construction company which was building the Riverdale Dam, he was only a number, while his English-speaking fellow-laborers called him Tony, as they did all the other Italians without discrimination. Once in a while, when Giovanni did not at once catch the meaning of an order, he was called a "dago," with certain qualifying phrases not usually found in the pages of correctly-edited magazines; but, then, so was every other Italian on the work, so that even this title by no means differentiated Giovanni from the rest of his fellow-countrymen.

I was studying sociology, that season, at the nigh end of a pick and shovelnot as college youth study it, for the fun. of the thing, but because of the primeval curse. It was necessary to work in order to eat, and there was "nothing doing" at banking, book-keeping, writing novels, acting, or any other of the genteel employments which I thought myself fitted to grace. And so I met Giovanni. I always called him Giovanni;

and perhaps this is how our friendship, if friendship it can be termed, began; because, naturally, he resented being called Tony or the other thing, as you or I would resent being called Tom or Dick when our name might be Harry, and just as naturally, his barrier of distrust and suspicion was lowered with one who took the trouble to call him by his right name. Distrust and suspicion, albeit disguised somewhat by the natural politeness of the Latin, was written all over Giovanni's countenance when first I began making little overtures to him, but ere long I was teaching him, off and on, at noon, a word of English, which he learned eagerly, while I was adding to my slender stock of Italian phrases.

But he was going home for Christmas. That was sure. The work was hardAh me, how hard it was !-the hours were long, the companionship was anything but choice. But there was the pay; miserable as it was, it was much to Giovanni-and he was going home for Christmas! How his dark face lit up when he arrived at this conclusion for the hundredth time! It seemed to be the refrain of a song which he sang in his heart as he toiled in the mud of