pure in His sight,' he murmured. But he hesitated not to obey, and
giving his hand to the Angel, said:

'Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him!'

His earnest lips still thrilling with a prayer for mercy, together they
departed 'for that bourne from which no traveller returns.' Between the
imperfections of the created and the perfections of the Creator, what
can fill the infinite abyss? Infinite Love alone!

* * * * *

The artist-brothers had never separated. Music, Poetry, and Painting
spring from the triune existence of man, represent his life in its
triune being, and thus move harmoniously together.

They had made their home the happiest spot on earth.

It was evening, and the Poet seemed lost in revery as he gazed on the
dying light. His hand rested tenderly on the shoulder of a dark but
brilliant woman, who loved him with the strength of a fervid soul.

'Sibyl,' said he softly to his young wife, 'were I now to leave thee,
how many of my lines would remain written on thy heart?'

'All! they are all graven there,' replied the enthusiast, 'for the
glowing words of a pure poet are the true echoes of a woman's soul!'

The Painter sat near them, putting the last touches upon a picture of a
Virgin and Child, which he was striving so to finish that his brethren