its transplantation to its native clime.

'The Lethe of Nature
Can't trance him again,
Whose soul sees the Perfect
His eyes seek in vain.'

* * * * *

It was midnight, and Anselm, worn with fasts and pale with vigils, knelt
at his devotions in his lonely cell. Lo! a majestic form of fearful but
perfect beauty stood beside him. The Angel was clad in linen, white as
snow, and his voice startled the soul like the sound of the last
trumpet.

'Gird up thy loins like a man, for the darksome doors of Death stand
open before thee, and this night thy Lord requires thy spirit!' said the
mighty messenger.

Anselm trembled. He feared to stand before the All-seeing Eye, whose
dread majesty subdued his soul.

'Behold! He putteth no trust in His saints, and the heavens are not
pure in His sight,' he murmured. But he hesitated not to obey, and
giving his hand to the Angel, said:

'Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him!'

His earnest lips still thrilling with a prayer for mercy, together they
departed 'for that bourne from which no traveller returns.' Between the
imperfections of the created and the perfections of the Creator, what
can fill the infinite abyss? Infinite Love alone!

* * * * *

The artist-brothers had never separated. Music, Poetry, and Painting
spring from the triune existence of man, represent his life in its
triune being, and thus move harmoniously together.

They had made their home the happiest spot on earth.

It was evening, and the Poet seemed lost in revery as he gazed on the
dying light. His hand rested tenderly on the shoulder of a dark but
brilliant woman, who loved him with the strength of a fervid soul.

'Sibyl,' said he softly to his young wife, 'were I now to leave thee,
how many of my lines would remain written on thy heart?'

'All! they are all graven there,' replied the enthusiast, 'for the
glowing words of a pure poet are the true echoes of a woman's soul!'

The Painter sat near them, putting the last touches upon a picture of a
Virgin and Child, which he was striving so to finish that his brethren
might be able to grasp more fully that sweet scene of human love and
God's strange mercy.

Tender were the shadows that fell from the veiling lashes on the rounded
cheek of his fair model; lustrous, yet soft and meek, the light from the
maiden's eye as she gazed upon the beautiful infant resting on her
bosom.