My heart's affections are still centred on my old attic, with
boarded floor and white-washed walls, where the sun blazoned a
frieze of red and gold until he travelled too far towards the
north, the moon streamed in to paint the trees in inky wavering
shadows, and the stars flashed their glory to me across the years.
But now sun and moon greet me only indirectly, and under the red
roses hang pictures, some of them the dear companions of my days.
Opposite me is the Arundel print of the Presentation, painted by
the gentle "Brother of the Angels." Priest Simeon, a stately
figure in green and gold, great with prophecy, gazes adoringly at
the Bambino he holds with fatherly care. Our Lady, in robe of red
and veil of shadowed purple, is instinct with light despite the
sombre colouring, as she stretches out hungering, awe-struck hands
for her soul's delight. St Joseph, dignified guardian and
servitor, stands behind, holding the Sacrifice of the Poor to
redeem the First-begotten.

St Peter Martyr and the Dominican nun, gazing in rapt contemplation
at the scene, are not one whit surprised to find themselves in the
presence of eternal mysteries. In the Entombment, which hangs on
the opposite wall, St Dominic comes round the corner full of
grievous amaze and tenderest sympathy, but with no sense of shock
or intrusion, for was he not "famigliar di Cristo"? And so he
takes it all in; the stone bed empty and waiting; the Beloved
cradled for the last time on His mother's knees to be washed,
lapped round, and laid to rest as if He were again the Babe of
Bethlehem. He sees the Magdalen anointing the Sacred Feet; Blessed
John caring for the living and the Dead; and he, Dominic--hound of
the Lord--having his real, living share in the anguish and hope,