t seem inconsolable?
Is it from love of paradox? Is it to show that his genius, which can do
so much, can paint the shadow lovelier than the light? Nothing of this.
Nothing that is not serious, honest, and noble, is to be found in this
novelist. Are they pessimistic, those ballads of the North, that always
end with vague resonances of woe? Are they pessimists, those singers of
our own land, who surprise us with tears in the midst of laughter? Is
Nature pessimistic, who is so sad at nightfall that it seems as if day
were dying forever? . . . The sadness of art, like that of nature, is
a form of hope. Why is Christianity so artistic? Because it is the
religion of sadness."

W. D. HOWELLS.

DONA PERFECTA

CHAPTER I

VILLAHORRENDA! FIVE MINUTES!

When the down train No. 65--of what line it is unnecessary to
say--stopped at the little station between kilometres 171 and 172,
almost all the second-and third-class passengers remained in the cars,
yawning or asleep, for the penetrating cold of the early morning did
not invite to a walk on the unsheltered platform. The only first-class
passenger on the train alighted quickly, and addressing a group of the
employes asked them if this was the Villahorrenda station.

"We are in Villahorrenda," answered the conductor whose voice was
drowned by the cackling of the hens which were at that moment being
lifted into the freight car. "I forgot to call you, Senor de Rey. I
think they are waiting for you at the station with the beasts."

"Why, how terribly cold it is here!" said the traveller, drawing his
cloak more closely about him. "Is there no place in the station where
I could rest for a while, and get warm, before undertaking a journey on
horseback through this frozen country?"

Before he had finished speaking the conductor, called away by the
urgent duties of his position, went off, leaving our unknown cavalier's
question unanswered. The latter saw that another employe was coming
toward him, holding a lantern in his right hand, that swung back and
forth as he walked, casting the light on the platform of the station
in a series of zigzags, like those described by the shower from a
watering-pot.

"Is there a restaurant or a bedroom in the station of Villahorrenda?"
said the traveller to the man with the lantern.

"There is nothing here," answered the latter brusquely, running toward
the men who were putting the freight on board the cars, and assuaging
them with