who works in stone, to have him
summoned to our conference."

"I think," said Agnes, "that you will find him in the town; he dwells
next to the cathedral."

"I trust he is a youth of pious life and conversation," said the monk.
"I must call on him this afternoon; for he ought to be stirring himself
up by hymns and prayers, and by meditations on the beauty of saints and
angels, for so goodly a work. What higher honor or grace can befall a
creature than to be called upon to make visible to men that beauty of
invisible things which is divine and eternal? How many holy men have
given themselves to this work in Italy, till, from being overrun with
heathen temples, it is now full of most curious and wonderful churches,
shrines, and cathedrals, every stone of which is a miracle of beauty! I
would, dear daughter, you could see our great Duomo in Florence, which
is a mountain of precious marbles and many-colored mosaics; and the
Campanile that riseth thereby is like a lily of Paradise,--so tall, so
stately, with such an infinite grace, and adorned all the way up with
holy emblems and images of saints and angels; nor is there any part of
it, within or without, that is not finished sacredly with care, as an
offering to the most perfect God. Truly, our fair Florence, though she
be little, is worthy, by her sacred adornments, to be worn as the lily
of our Lady's girdle, even as she hath been dedicated to her."

Agnes seemed pleased with the enthusiastic discourse of her uncle. The
tears gradually dried from her eyes as she listened to him, and the hope
so natural to the young and untried heart began to reassert itself. God
was merciful, the world beautiful; there was a tender Mother, a reigning
Saviour, protecting angels and guardian saints: surely, then, there
was no need to despair of the recall of any wanderer; and the softest
supplication of the most ignorant and unworthy would be taken up by so
many sympathetic voices in the invisible world, and borne on in so many
waves of brightness to the heavenly throne, that the most timid must
have hope in prayer.

In the afternoon, the monk went to the town to seek the young artist,
and also to inquire for the stranger for whom his pastoral offices were
in requisition, and Agnes remained alone in the little solitary garden.

It was one of those rich slumberous afternoons of spring that seem to
bathe earth and heaven with an Elysian softness; and from her little
lonely nook shrouded