The name of the child was Jemschid, and there was in that name a
charm sufficient to awaken her innocent love.

She was the betrothed of the Painter.

'Imogen!' said he to the fair model, 'I know not why the thought rushes
so sadly over me, but I feel I shall never finish this picture. The
traits escape me--I cannot find them.'

'Never finish the beautiful Madonna, to which you have given so much
time, and on which you have expended so much care!' Then with a sudden
change of tone, in which astonishment darkened into fear, she exclaimed:
'Are you ill, Jemschid? You have already worked too long upon it. You
will destroy your health; you need rest.'

'Nay, sweet Imogen, not so; I am well, quite well, and too happy for
words. But I cannot finish the picture. I have lost the expression for
the face of the Madonna. Six months ago, when I began it, your face was
so meek and tranquil it served me well, but now, even with its present
air of meek entreaty, it is too passionate for the mother of God. It is
far dearer thus to me, Imogen--but I can never finish the painting
now--and only an angel can, for your young face is fairer and purer than
aught else on earth.'

Again fell the heavy lashes, half veiling the innocent love in the timid
eyes, as the Painter parted the massive braids from the spotless brow,
and softly kissed the snowy forehead of his betrothed.

The harp of Angelo quivered, as the sun set behind the crimson clouds,
under his nervous touch. Some sadness seemed to weigh upon his buoyant
spirit too, in this eventful eve. His music always pictured the depths
of his own soul, and he forced the heaven tones to wail the human
Miserere. But the Beauty into which the sorrow was transfigured gave
promise that it would end in the triumphant chorus of the 'Hosanna in
Excelsis.' For music gives the absolute peace in the absolute conflict;
the absolute conflict to terminate in the absolute peace.

Fair as the Angel of Hope, the Rose listened with her heart. Her
childlike, deep blue eyes were raised to heaven, while her long golden
curls, lighting rather than shading her pale brow, like the halos of dim
glory which the light vapors wreathe round the moon, mingled with the
darker flow of wavy hair falling upon the shoulder of the harpist, on
which she leaned as if to catch the flying sounds as they soared from
the heart of the loved one.

'Thy song is very sad,' said the Rose, as her eyes rested tenderly upon
the inspi