them other human creatures scarcely discernible.  And over all this blackness and chaos the supernal figure of the Christ was aerially poised,—­one hand was extended and to this a woman clung—­a woman with a beautiful face made piteous in its beauty by long grief and patient endurance.  In her other arm she held a sleeping child—­and mother and child were linked together by a garland of flowers partially broken and faded.  Her entreating attitude,—­the sleeping child’s helplessness—­her worn face,—­the perishing roses of earth’s hope and joy,—­all expressed their meaning simply yet tragically, and as the Divine Hand supported and drew her up out of the universal chaos below, the hope of a new world, a better world, a wiser world, a holier world, seemed to be distantly conveyed.  But the eyes of the Christ were full of reproach, and were bent on the Representative of St. Peter binding the laurel-crowned youth, and dragging him into darkness,—­and the words written across the golden mount of the picture, in clear black letters, seemed to be actually spoken aloud from the vivid color and movement of the painting.  “Many in that day will call upon Me and say, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in Thy name, and in Thy name cast out devils, and done many wonderful works?”

“Then will I say to them, I never knew you!  Depart from me all ye that work iniquity!”

As an Allegory the picture was a daring yet sublime reproach to the hypocrisy of the religious world,—­as a picture it was consummate in every detail, and would have been freely admitted as a masterpiece of Raffaelle had Raffaelle been fortunate enough to paint it.  Still Varillo kept silence.  Angela’s heart beat so loudly that she could almost hear it in the deep silence of the room.  Every fine little nerve in her body was strained—­to the utmost height of suspense,—­ she was afraid to look at her lover, or disturb the poise of his mental judgment by the lightest movement.  And he?  Thoughts, black as the chaos of cloud she had so powerfully portrayed, were stirring in his soul,—­thoughts, base and mean and cowardly, which, gradually gathering force as he dwelt upon them, began to grow and spring up to a devilish height worked into life and being by a burning spark of jealousy, which, long smouldering in his nature, now leaped into a flame.  No trace of the wicked inner workings of his mind, however, darkened the equanimity of his features, or clouded the serene, soft candour of his eyes, as he at last turned towards the loving, shrinking woman, who stood waiting for his approval, as simply and sweetly as a rose might wait for the touch of the morning sun.  Slowly, and like little pellets of ice, his first words fell from his lips,

“Did you do it all yourself?”

The spell was disturbed—­the charm broken.  Angela turned very white--she drew a deep breath—­and the tension on her nerves relaxed,—­her heart gave one indignant bound—­and then resumed its usual quiet beating, as with a strong effort she gathered all her dignity and force together, and replied simply,