might be able to grasp more fully that sweet scene of human love and
God's strange mercy.

Tender were the shadows that fell from the veiling lashes on the rounded
cheek of his fair model; lustrous, yet soft and meek, the light from the
maiden's eye as she gazed upon the beautiful infant resting on her
bosom. The name of the child was Jemschid, and there was in that name a
charm sufficient to awaken her innocent love.

She was the betrothed of the Painter.

'Imogen!' said he to the fair model, 'I know not why the thought rushes
so sadly over me, but I feel I shall never finish this picture. The
traits escape me--I cannot find them.'

'Never finish the beautiful Madonna, to which you have given so much
time, and on which you have expended so much care!' Then with a sudden
change of tone, in which astonishment darkened into fear, she exclaimed:
'Are you ill, Jemschid? You have already worked too long upon it. You
will destroy your health; you need rest.'

'Nay, sweet Imogen, not so; I am well, quite well, and too happy for
words. But I cannot finish the picture. I have lost the expression for
the face of the Madonna. Six months ago, when I began it, your face was
so meek and tranquil it served me well, but now, even with its present
air of meek entreaty, it is too passionate for the mother of God. It is
far dearer thus to me, Imogen--but I can never finish the painting
now--and only an angel can, for your young face is fairer and purer than
aught else on earth.'