"Yes, sir."

"And will you sit for my picture?"

"Yes, as soon as you wish."

Before Marietta left she kissed the Christmas Rose, and whispered, "Dear Infant Jesus, guard the flower which has saved us."

And it murmured:--

"I am happy. My Master is pleased that I have followed in His footsteps, and His reward is beyond all price."

But Marietta did not hear.

Before Angel went to rest he placed the Christmas Rose in a goblet of water, and it lifted up its innocent face and breathed a sweet, faint perfume. The hours flew by, and towards midnight a curious pink hue stole over its white petals, the fragrance died away, the luxuriant stem withered up, and it breathed its last as Christ's birthday pa.s.sed away.

The star of Bethlehem was alone in the heavens when Night visited the garden to greet the beauteous flower of the morning, but it had vanished. In its place was a tear which sparkled like a diamond, the tear it had shed when yearning to help suffering humanity.

III.

Four months afterwards Marietta received a letter from the superior of her convent. She sat reading it in a clean and comfortably furnished room. Though to all appearances perfectly happy, her face wore an expression of sadness, and tears fell on the missive in her hand.

At length she rose, placed the letter in the pocket of her gown, and after packing up a costume she had just finished making for Edward Thornhill, made her way to his studio.

He praised her work. He had never found anybody so clever at carrying out suggestions as Marietta; but to-day his commendation brought no pleasure into her face, and the artist was quick to notice her changed manner.

"You are sad, Marietta?"

"No," she answered hastily, turning to leave the studio.

"Why no, when you mean yes?" he asked, following her.

She did not reply, but the tears gathered in her eyes and fell upon her dress.

"Tell me what grieves you. I helped you once, and may be able to do so again."

She took the Reverend Mother's letter from her pocket and placed it in his hand. It contained a few lines, saying that they would expect their child back in a fortnight's time.

"Then you are going to leave us after all?"

"It is better so."

"But it makes you sad the thought of going?"

"Yes," she said, with downcast face.

"The sisters would not wish you to take the veil if you or they doubted your vocation for such a surrender?"

"I don't understand."

"Your heart must be in this sacrament, your whole heart, you must have no longings after the world. Is it not so?"

"Oh yes," she said, her voice trembling, tears in her eyes.

"Have you any longings that might be a shadow on your nun's life, my child? Have you? Nay, don't be afraid to speak."

"Oh, don't ask me," she said, repressing her sobs.

"You do not think your life here involves a sin? You have enabled me to paint a heavenly image that might, so far as the pure spirit of it goes, decorate the fairest church. I do not say the work, Marietta, but the intention, the inspiration."

She found this question too subtle for her comprehension, but there was something in the artist's tone and manner that thrilled her, something that was like the influence of the _Magnificat_ in the great choir of the cathedral. She turned her wondering eyes towards him, and he took her hands in his.

"You have been happy here?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"Yes, very."

"Then why leave me? Put up with the gloom and fog for my sake, Marietta.

Be the artist's little wife as well as his model."

The sun came streaming into the studio as he bent over her fair hands and kissed them.

"It is not all gloom and fog," she replied. "To-day the London sun is as bright and warm as it was in Italy when I was a child."

It was not alone the London sun, it was the sunshine of the heart; and it lasted all through the remainder of Marietta's life.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE WINDFLOWER

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE WINDFLOWER]

"Onewillcrowntheeking Farinthespiritualcity"

Lord Tennyson

I.

Lady Mercy sat writing of love in the early hours of morning. She had been christened Mercy, but the people called her the "Windflower." She was born in a high March wind, which had once more wooed her sisters into life. They lay like a fall of snow in the adjacent forests.

As the girl grew the t.i.tle of the "Windflower" suited more and more her long fair hair and clear grey eyes.

She had never known any home beyond this beautiful palace. Here, in the heart of a pastoral country, the birds sang and the flowers bloomed all through the year. It was a haven of peace, of glorious morning dawns and wind-swept evening skies.

Her mother, the widowed Countess, wished to keep her among the flowers and meadows, and she had reached her seventeenth summer without ever having been in a city. She had, indeed, many learned teachers, and had heard and read of the great world which lay beyond the hills surrounding her home, but had no longing in her heart to go there. She found hosts of friends in nature--the flowers, birds, dogs, horses, golden fish in the fountain, and the sun; but most of all the wind. It seemed as though the poetic t.i.tle, given to her by the good people of the village, had already exercised an influence upon her life. She loved the wind, whether he came from the icefields of the north or the sun-plains of the equator, whether his breath were redolent of western seas or of spices and Arabian perfumes.

To feel his kisses on her face, to have him whirl her round in his strength, to bend before his mighty wings as did her sisters, the Windflowers, this was her delight. Her play hours were pa.s.sed in dreamland peopled with her own mystical creations. What should she know of love? She was, indeed, an utter stranger to it, and yet she wrote of love, and called her hero "Terah."