had been, unconsciously to himself, led by her instead of leading, her spiritual food had been its beautiful old hymns and prayers, which she found no weariness in often repeating.  But now an unnatural conflict was begun in her mind, directed by a spiritual guide in whom every natural and normal movement of the soul had given way before a succession of morbid and unhealthful experiences.  From that day Agnes wore upon her heart one of those sharp instruments of torture which in those times were supposed to be a means of inward grace,—­a cross with seven steel points for the seven sorrows of Mary.  She fasted with a severity which alarmed her grandmother, who in her inmost heart cursed the day that ever she had placed her in the way of saintship.

“All this will just end in spoiling her beauty,—­making her as thin as a shadow,”—­said Elsie; “and she was good enough before.”

But it did not spoil her beauty,-it only changed its character.  The roundness and bloom melted away,—­but there came in their stead that solemn, transparent clearness of countenance, that spiritual light and radiance, which the old Florentine painters gave to their Madonnas.

It is singular how all religious exercises and appliances take the character of the nature that uses them.  The pain and penance, which so many in her day bore as a cowardly expedient for averting divine wrath, seemed, as she viewed them, a humble way of becoming associated in the sufferings of her Redeemer. “Jesu dulcis memoria,” was the thought that carried a redeeming sweetness with every pain.  Could she thus, by suffering with her Lord, gain power like Him to save,—­a power which should save that soul so dear and so endangered!  “Ah,” she thought, “I would give my life-blood, drop by drop, if only it might avail for his salvation!”

* * * * *

THE TRUE HEROINE.

  What was she like?  I cannot tell. 
  I only know God loved her well. 
  Two noble sons her gray hairs blest,—­
  And he, their sire, was now at rest.

  And why her children loved her so,
  And called her blessed, all shall know: 
  She never had a selfish thought,
  Nor valued what her hand had wrought.

  She could be just in spite of love;
  And cherished hates she dwelt above;
  In sick-rooms they that had her care
  Said she was wondrous gentle there.

  It was a fearful trust, she knew,
  To guide her young immortals through;
  But Love and Truth explained the way,
  And Piety made perfect day.

  She taught them to be pure and true,
  And brave, and strong, and courteous, too;
  She made them reverence silver hairs,
  And feel the poor man’s biting cares.

She won them ever to her side; Home was their treasure and their pride:  Its food, drink, shelter pleased them best, And there they found the sweetest rest.

  And often, as the shadows fell,
  And twilight had attuned them well,
  She sang of many a noble deed,
  And marked with joy their eager heed.