the river under the guidance of an old sailor. There she sat at the rudder, gazing on the landscape as it became more and more obscured by the shades of evening, or looking dreamily into the waters over which she was gliding. Then, as the moon arose in the heavens and the stars lit up their crests, she thought of a distant land, a land of poetry and art, and a form arose before her whose thoughts like her own were turned with longing towards the spot where dwelt the beloved. And she dreamed of happy days when hand-in-hand with the chosen of her heart she should wander through life, and with sweet words repay him for the toils of genius, which would be dearer to him than all the renown he had gained. Then, when the boat struck the shore and she again felt the ground firm under her feet, it seemed as if the golden gates of an enchanted land had closed behind her.

On her return one day from one of these excursions she found a letter in her room with the postmark, "Italy." She opened it impatiently. A withered bunch of violets fell from it.

With a despairing cry she fell upon her bed and buried her face in the pillow.

False! Faithless! What would become of her? She felt for the first time how lonely, how empty was her life, and bitter tears flowed down her cheeks.

Sad indeed were the days she now spent. Surrounded by a happy crowd, she was alone in her sorrow. She longed to be away, quite away, in another land, among other people. Better a thousand times to suffer alone and mourn in silence.

When at the expiration of a year her guardian was about to go abroad upon business, she begged, with a morbid longing after change of place, to be allowed to accompany him, and shaking her head her aunt was willing that the extraordinary child should do so. She was so quiet, so

different from other young people that she must be allowed to have her way.

It was a dismal autumn evening when they went on board. The clouds hung dark and thick over land and water, and the sea lay motionless, except that now and then a puff of sharp wind threw a wave over the ship. Wrapped in her cloak, Lydia stood on the deck watching the retreating shore. She shuddered, but it was not from the cold of the keen wind which now played in her hair. She thought of her buried hopes and her comfortless life-her spring had departed, her youth was gone. She was floating on to the wide sea of futurity, solitary and friendless.

My old friend's head was bowed down, while her hands rested in her lap. I pressed a kiss upon them and she raised herself up.

"Yes, my child," she said, "my life did not remain loveless. I have learned that he who sows love shall reap love," and she resumed her history.

Years had passed since that day; the blooming maiden had become a matron, and bright silver threads mixed with her dark locks. The sharp pain of early sorrow had given place to a softer feeling of sadness. Lydia had given her heart to no husband, but she had opened it to the human race in loving-kindness, and had found peace and consolation.

It happened that a young girl, whose fading health required a warmer climate, came to Lydia with an earnest petition that she would go with her. Lydia was quite willing, and Milan was the place of their destination. The girl's health soon improved under the mild climate and Lydia's care, and it was with pleasure that her companion remarked the daily progress of her patient towards recovery.

One day when the little party who were in the pension were assembled at dinner, an old gentleman told of

an affecting sight he had that day witnessed. In the attic of a house near there was a blind painter in a consumption, who, it seemed, would not live more than a few weeks. "Even now,' continued the old gentleman, "the image of that man with his white hair and great sightless eyes, so sad in their eternal night, haunts me. His former circumstances cannot have been very good, judging by the poverty, in spite of the scrupulous neatness, of everything around him. There is a case for your kind heart," he said, turning to Lydia.

She nodded assentingly, as if in a dream, for she had at once decided in her heart to go and see the artist with the great sad eyes.

On the following morning-it was a bright, sunny autumn day, such as you only find in the South-the matron in deep thought slowly as cended the stairs which led to the dwelling of the blind artist. Why did her heart beat so wildly? Had she not many a time made similar visits? Wherefore this unusual emotion?

She knocked. A weak, low voice bid her enter. She opened the door softly, and seated by the open window, with the sun's rays upon his snow-white hair and high forehead, was the well-known, but oh, how altered form!

Lydia remained by the open door as if rooted to the spot. The darkened eyes turned towards her.

"Is it you, brother? Come nearer; your silence frightens me."

Lydia accepted his invitation with a trembling step. She placed her hand upon the shoulder of the blind man and said, softly, "It is I, Valery."

He rose in alarm as if to repulse the intruder. Again she spoke with a tremulous voice, "Yes, Valery, it is I-Lydia; an old friend."

A gleam of light irradiated the blind man's countenance. He clasped

his hands and exclaimed, fervently, "Lydia! Lydia! my Lydia!" With a sob Lydia sank on her knees by his side.

"How unhappy you made me," she said at last as she quietly arose. The blind man clasped her hand in his and covered it with kisses.

"I have made you unhappy. Oh, forgive, forgive! I could not do otherwise. How full of hope I was when I journeyed to the land I longed after, and in what misery did I leave it; plunged into darkness, without a ray of hope or consolation. Oh, Lydia! when the doctor told me that my sight could never be restored, it was not poverty nor darkness that caused me such bitter tears; I wept for my art and for you. It was impossible to chain your young sunny life to my sorrow, so I sent you back the bunch of violets without a word, without a farewell, for I could not appeal to your generosity by opening to you my grief. You were young, and life lay before you; you would soon forget the faithless one. Sorrow and mourning would be my part alone."

"And did you not know that I loved you, Valery? And did you not know that a true affection never dies, never can die?"

Valery bent his head; a tear fell upon Lydia's hand.

"Forgive me, forgive me! I too have suffered deeply."

Lydia's only answer was to impress a gentle kiss on his forehead.

"But now," began Lydia, after a short pause, "I shall remain here and be your guide through the rest of your life."

"Oh yes! stay with me; it will not be for long. I have so rejoiced in the thought of exchanging this earthly darkness for the eternal light. But now

Lydia could not hope. She read the confirmation of his words in his sunken features, and in the short dry cough which shook his frame. She

knew that she had only found him to lose him again forever.

And so it was at the end of hardly two months. One day, after the blind man for the last time had partaken of the Blessed Sacrament, he begged Lydia to remain with him all night, he felt so ill and unusually oppressed by the sense of his blindness. Lydia remained. He slept all night as calmly as a child. Then, just as the eastern heavens began to redden, he called her to him with a weak voice. "Give me your hand, Lydia," he said. "I think the time is near when we must separate. Thank you for all your goodness, all. And forgive me for having formerly disturbed your youth with my unhappy love. Open the window," he said, after awhile.

Lydia opened the window; the first rays of the morning sun broke through the clouds and cast their golden light on the bed of the dying man. His sightless eyes were turned towards the rising sun. Lydia sank on her knees beside him. Then he drew a ring from his finger; it was a slight gold circle,

and had been his mother's marriage ring.

Not here, but there above shall we be united. Keep it with the violets."

Weeping bitterly, Lydia took the pledge of his affection, and sobbing, laid her head on his pillow.

"Keep it with the violets, do you hear?" he repeated. "We shall meet again. The darkness is fading away; it is getting light. Dearest, we shall

He sank back, and his friend finished the sentence for him: "Yes, we shall meet again."

Then she closed his eyes, and sank down in prayer by his bedside.

"After my long night of sorrow, that was my short, happy festal day. The words, we shall meet again,' accompany me like a song of consolation in my pilgrimage through this world to the grave. May they be changed into a hymn of joy in the heaven above."

THIS church is situated on the Romentanna road, nearly two English miles outside the gate called Porta Pia, and the house where the parents of Saint Agnes formerly dwelt stood upon the ground it occupies.

It is needless here to enter into any detailed account of the life and martyrdom of Saint Agnes; it is well known to all Catholics how the Lady Agnes, born to wealth, endowed with talents and rare beauty, was from her earliest infancy trained by Christian parents in the Christian faith, dedicated while yet in her childhood to be the "Bride of Heaven;" how her hand was sought by one of noble birth, and how, upon her refusal, he denounced her as a Christian; how the Lady Agnes stood her trial and was condemned to tortures worse than death; how miraculously she was preserved in her fearful prison, and being brought forth on the day after this, and refusing to offer up incense to an idol, she was condemned to death; how calmly, even cheerfully, she laid her head on the block, yielding her brave spirit to Him who had given it, and so won her crown of martyrdom. All this is well known, for is not Saint Agnes the patron saint of many youthful maidens? Do we not all remember the vivid pictures of her drawn by a master hand in "Fabiola?"

Of the two churches in Rome dedicated to her memory, the one on the Piazza Rabona is built on the spot where Saint Agnes endured her fearful trial, and where she gained her martyr's crown at the early age of thirteen. That of Saint Agnes outside the walls is, as has already been mentioned, built on the ground where formerly stood a mansion belonging to her parents. After her

death the body of Saint Agnes was removed by her parents to their own domain and there buried. At this tomb a few days after, poor little Emerentiana, foster sister to the Lady Agnes, who had gone out alone to pray at the grave of her beloved friend, was surprised by the soldiers, and having declared herself a Christian was at once hurried off to death.

At this spot, too, the parents of Saint Agnes, having come, in the dead of night, also to watch and pray, saw, as it were in a vision, a choir of virgins, and in the midst of them their own beloved daughter, clad in a robe of dazzling whiteness, having at her side a little lamb as pure as the driven snow, and Saint Agnes having begged of the other virgins to rest an instant, said to her parents, "Weep not for me as dead, but rather rejoice for me; you see I have been received in the regions of light, and united to those whom on earth I loved with my whole soul," and having said this she passed away.

The martyrdom of Saint Agnes took place in 304, under the persecution of the emperor Diocletian. Twenty years later Constantine caused a basilica to be erected over the tomb of this saint, and this edifice, preserved to the present day in its primitive form, gives a good idea of what churches in the fourth century were like.

It was remodelled in the sixth and again in the seventh century. It is entered by a descent of forty-five steps. The walls of this staircase are covered with tablets taken from the catacombs of Saint Agnes, which join the church. Some of these tablets are entire and bear the date

of the time when they were engraved. On passing through the door at the foot of the stairs the church appears in all its beauty. It has three naves, separated by sixteen Corinthian columns, while the same number support the roof.

Between the rows of pillars are some curious old mosaic portraits of Pontiffs who have been favorable to the improvement of the basilica, and between the windows portraits of those virgins who have shed their blood for the faith. There is a statue above the high altar representing Saint Agnes supporting a lamb upon her right arm, and in her left holding the palm of martyrdom. The body of this statue is of ancient oriiental alabaster, while the head, hands, and feet, of bronze, have been more recently added. Under this altar repose the mortal remains of Saint Agnes and her foster sister, Saint Emerentiana.

Leo XI, Honorius I, and others, Popes and cardinals, have been rich benefactors to this church; one act was the inclosing of the largest nave with a vaulted arch of great beauty, which is adorned with mosaics of Saint Agnes and Pope Honorius I, who holds in his hand a model of the church.

The Baldachino, supported by four columns of red porphyry of great value, was the gift of Paul V, who also adorned the altar by an arabesque work of precious stones, and caused the bones of Saint Agnes and her foster sister to be inclosed in a silver urn of great value. He also gave a mitre, rich in diamonds and pearls, to this church.

The ceremony of replacing the bones once more beneath the altar, which took place in 1621, appears to have been a service conducted with great pomp and solemnity. The Pope attended in person, and this must have been one of the last acts in the life of Paul V, as we hear that on this occasion he contracted the illness of which he died eight days after.

On the 12th of April, 1855, the Holy Father, Pius IX, after a visit to the basilica, was giving a reception to the students of the Propaganda College, and others, who had been invited to meet him in the convent which joins the church, when suddenly the floor of the hall gave way with a terrific crash, and the whole assembly, consisting of about one hundred and twenty persons, including the Holy Father, were precipitated into the cellar below. Wonderful to say neither the Holy Father nor any of those assembled received either scratch or bruise. To testify his feeling of thankfulness his Holiness ordered the whole basilica to be restored at the expense of his own private purse. A solemn service is held on the 12th of April every year. The anniversary of this occurrence coincides with that of the return of the Holy Father from Gaëta.

The late Cardinal Antonelli also caused the beautiful diadem of precious stones which encircles the head of the statue of Saint Agnes on the high altar to be gilded and repaired. In the second chapel on the right of the high altar there is a splendidly sculptured head of our Saviour, said to have been carved by Michael Angelo. In a chapel on the left side there is a very ancient statue of the Mother of God.

The 21st of January is the great festival of the year at Saint Agnes Outside the Walls, for on that day the Church keeps the anniversary of her martyrdom. The writer of this paper is able to give an exact account of the ceremony, having been favored with a ticket for the gallery.

He left Rome by the road leading through the new gateway, built after designs by Michael Angelo, in 1567, and which is one of the best, having been modernized and improved in late years. When free of action Pius IX would frequently alight from his carriage on this road and