[Illustration: From a carbon print by Braun, Clément & Co. John Andrew
& Son, Sc. THE ANGELUS]

The atmosphere of prayer pervades the picture. The woman stands with
bowed head and hands clasped over her breast. Her whole body sways
slightly forward in the intensity of her devotion. Her husband has
bared his head and holds his hat before him. Though he may seem
somewhat awkward, he is not less sincerely reverent.

The sunset light shines on the woman's blue apron, gilds the potato
sacks in the wheelbarrow, and gleams along the furrows. Farther away,
the withered plants are heaped in rows of little piles. Beyond, the
level plain stretches to meet the glowing sky, and, outlined on the
horizon, is the spire of the church where the bells are ringing.

As the meaning of the picture grows upon us, we can almost hear the
ringing of the bells. Indeed, to those familiar with such scenes in
actual life, the impression is very vivid. The friend to whom Millet
first showed his painting immediately exclaimed, "It is the Angelus."
"Then you can hear the bells," said the artist, and was content.

The solemn influence of the picture is deepened by the effects of the
twilight on the plains. A wide outlook across a level country, like
a view of the sea, is always impressive, but it has peculiar power
in the vague light which follows the sunset. Many poetic natures have
felt this mystic spell of the gloaming as it descends upon the plain.
Robert Louis Stevenson was one of these, and upon visiting Barbizon he
described vividly his feelings at such an hour. We are told also
that Millet loved to walk abroad at nightfall and note the mysterious