"Thy Lord and mine made of Himself a carpenter and died like a poor slave to succor you, dear lad,” he said, his large, dark eyes lighting up with a deep, beautiful glow. "I do but try to follow Him this blessed Eastertide. You are better. To-morrow you will be well. Will you come with me to hear the Easter Mass?" "I will do anything for you, my father," I cried. "Anything?" with a little smile, which seemed as does the sun breaking over the quiet Apennines.

"Have you not saved my life?" I asked, aggrieved that he should doubt me.

"Mayhap," he answered, "I had rather save your soul. Will you go to be shriven to-morrow, lad?"

I was years older than he seemed to be, for from his slight figure and sweet, almost boyish face I thought him not over five and twenty, but there was a fatherliness in his mien which, coupled with his gracious deed for me, conquered my stubborn soul, and I said, "If you will, father, and on every Easter after this, I shall go to the Church of San Antonio" stopped a moment, for like a flash had come to me the memory of my prayer. "It is he!" I cried. "Il Santo! Tell me, father, did San Antonio send you to me? I prayed to him."

I

He smiled again, and a little color flamed into his pale cheeks; then he said gently: "The good God sent me, dear lad. Try to sleep," and I obeyed.

At midnight I awoke. A strange light was shed upon me from a chamber beyond mine. Sweet perfumes filled the air, scents such as I had never known before, so sweet as to make one dream of Paradise and angel gardens. Through the violet-scented air stole soft, indistinguishable murmurs and a thrilling ecstasy was breathed about. Softly I rose and crept to the door, which was ajar. What did I see? Ah, Signor! a sight which made me sink to my knees in speechless adoration.

There knelt my monk - mine because he had loved me, tended me, toiled for me, saved my wicked soul, Signor. He was in his brown robes, his face was uplifted, his arms were outstretched. About him in the air were angel forms; roses lay upon the rough stone floor, and before him, oh, the wonder of the sight - stood the Christ-Child he so loved. His baby hands were stretched out toward the saint for in a moment

I knew that this was San Antonio, come from Heaven to toil for me! And as I closed my eyes, fearing to look longer upon the heavenly sight, the Divine Child's lips whispered sweetly, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren ye have done it unto me."

Next morning he was gone, gone from my sight, Signor. Yet as I knelt to make my confession in the Church, and as I went happily to hear my Easter Mass

that day, he seemed ever near me, he and the Blessed Christ.

I have fared well since then, Signor. I left my old trade of man-at-arms, for it is a hard life for a man to lead well. The little shop of the baker Brutti had an attraction for me, and before many months I found a place therein and the Signor's lovely daughter Carlotta was my wife. Our oldest boy is named Antonio. We are simple folk, but happy, very happy.

My father-in-law is good for all his peevish ways. When he scolds we sigh and think he suffers more than usual. Often he complains that I do not half the work which did the monk who brought me to him. Then Carlotta, half laughing, yet with a tear in her sweet, dark eye, whispers to me that her father never had an underling whom he reviled as he did his Easter guest.

Then do I say over to myself, Signor, "Thy Lord and mine made of Himself a carpenter and died like a poor slave to succor you, dear lad. I do but try to follow Him this blessed Easter-tide!"

MARY F. NIXON-ROULET.

Glorious it is to wear the crown
Of a deserved and pure success;
He who knows how to fail has won
A crown whose luster is not less.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

THE BALLAD OF THE FOX HUNTER

"Now lay me in a cushioned chair
And carry me, you four,

With cushions here and cushions there,

To see the world once more.

"And some one from the stables bring

My Dermot dear and brown,

And lead him gently in a ring,

And gently up and down.

"Now leave the chair upon the grass:
Bring hound and huntsman here,
And I on this strange road will pass,
Filled full of ancient cheer."

His eyelids droop, his head falls low,
His old eyes cloud with dreams;
The sun upon all things that grow
Pours round in sleepy streams.

Brown Dermot treads upon the lawn,
And to the armchair goes,

And now the old man's dreams are gone,

He smooths the long brown nose.

And now moves many a pleasant tongue

Upon his wasted hands,

For leading aged hounds and young

The huntsman near him stands.

A fire is in the old man's eyes,

His fingers move and sway,

And when the wandering music dies

They hear him feebly say,

"My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn,

And make the hills reply."

"I cannot blow upon my horn,

I can but weep and sigh."

The servants round his cushioned place

Are with new sorrow wṛung;

And hounds are gazing on his face,

Both aged hounds and young.

One blind hound only lies apart

On the sun-smitten grass;

He holds deep commune with his heart:

The moments pass and pass;

The blind hound with a mournful din

Lifts slow his wintry head;

The servants bear the body in;

The hounds wail for the dead.

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS