" and was painted by Miss Margot Revere! _Our
Margot_, the girl who had been my classmate, whom I had loved as a
sister. The scene portrayed was a procession of early Christians
entering an Eastern city at Eastertide. There were matrons and maids,
golden-haired children, and white-haired men, all bearing green palm
branches, under an intense, cerulean sky.

"Well done, Margot," said Miss Melford softly, with a suspicious dimness
in her eyes, and there was a general chorus of approval from all
beholders.

Margot, who was much older than I, had left school long since, had
studied, worked, copied in the great Art Galleries, exhibited, and sold
her works.

She was then in Rome with her father, who had become blind, and I had at
that moment a long letter from her in my bag, as I stood looking at her
picture. In one passage of it she had written: "the girl with the crown
of white roses in my last painting is my little Gloria, my girl comrade,
who consoled me when I was sad, who watched next my pillow when I was
sick, and when sad memories made me cry at night crept to me through the
long dormitory and knelt beside me, like a white-robed ministering
angel. Apropos of palms, mama was a palm-bearer; I must win one before I
look on her dear, dear face." As I thought on these words, Miss
Melford's voice speaking to Gurda broke in on my thoughts.

"Dear, dear, how extremely like to Gloria is that figure in the middle
of Margot's painting!"

"Of course, Miss Melford, Margot will have sketched it from her. She was
her chum, her soul's sister."

"Her soul's sister!" Those three words went with me through the gallery;
into the sculpture room, amidst white marble figures, into the room full
of Delia Robbia and majolica ware, everywhere!

Even when we descended the flight of steps, and came into the great
white square, I seemed to hear them in the plashing of the fountains.

III.

THE RAIN OF FIRE.

It was August, and rain had fallen on the hot, parched earth.

The bells in the church tower were ringing a muffled peal, and as I
listened to the sad, sweet music, I thought of Margot, lonely Margot,
who had seen her father laid under the ilex trees, and then gone to
visit a distant relative at Chateau Belair in the West Indies. It was a
strange coincidence, but as I thought of her the servant brought in a
card, bearing the name, M. Achille Levasseur, beneath which was
pencilled:

"Late of Chateau Belair, and cousin of th