incense, and cloud
the humble shrine. Two or three comers swell the group from the recesses
of the dark little shop behind, for no other reason than that life is
pleasant where so much is going on; and some maiden, into whose life a
dawning romance is just creeping, confesses it with a brighter color as
she hangs, half-timidly, her bunch of tinselled flowers before the red
lamp of the good little Madonna of this _traghetto benedetto_, whose
gondoliers are the bravest in all Venice! Meanwhile the boatmen, coming,
going, or waiting, keep up a lively chatter.

And under the trellis, as if far removed, the sleeping child and Marina
of Murano bending over him a face glorified with its story of love and
compassion, are like a living Rafaello!

"The _bambino_ is beautiful," said the artist, drawing nearer, but
speaking reverently, for he knew that he had found the face he had been
seeking for his Madonna for the altar of the Servi. "What doth he like,
your little one? For I am a friend to the _bambini_, and the _poverina_
hath pain to bear."

She was more beautiful still when she smiled and the anxiety died out of
her girlish face for a moment, in gratitude for the sympathy.
"Eccellenza, thanks," she answered simply; "he has a beautiful face.
Sometimes when he has flowers in his little hand he smiles and is quite
still."

But the radiant look passed swiftly with the remembrance of the pain
that would come to the child on waking, and she kissed the tiny fingers
that lay over the edge of her mantle with a movement of irrepressible
tenderness, lapsing at once into reverie; while the artist, full of the
enthusiasm of creation, stood dreaming of his picture. This Holy Mother
should be greater, more compassionate, nearer to the people than any
Madonna he had ever painted; for never had he noted in any face before
such a passion of love and pity. In that moment of stillness the sunset
lights, intensifying, cast a glow about her; the child, half-waking,
stretched up his tiny hand and touched her cheek with a rare caress, and
the light in her face was a radiance never to be forgotten. The
Veronese's wonderful _Madonna del Sorriso_ leaped to instant life; a
_smile_ full of the pathos of human suffering, tender in comprehension,
perfect in faith--this, which this moment of inspiration had revealed to
him, would he paint for the consolation of those who should kneel before
the altar of the Servi!

She was busy with the child, puttin