“My dear child!” exclaimed the woman, going to embrace her. “Are we not friends?”
“You made me fear that we were not,” said Tacita.
“Dismiss that fear! I will never so offend you again.”
CHAPTER V.
One morning shortly after their arrival at Madrid, the two went to the great picture-gallery, of all picture-galleries the most delightful.
“When you shall have seen Murillo’s Conceptions,” Elena said, “you will see the difference between a sweet human nature and a supernatural creature. Raphael has painted good and beautiful women full of religious feeling; Murillo has painted the miraculous woman. The Spaniard had a vision of the Divine.”
“You have been in Madrid before?”
“For two years,” said Elena quietly.
They entered the large hall. It was early for visitors; but two artists were there copying. One had had the courage to set his easel up before one of Murillo’s large Conceptions.
Tacita seated herself before that heavenly vision, and became absorbed in it. It was a revelation to her. The small picture in the Louvre had made but a slight impression on her, weary as she was with sight-seeing. But here was a reflection of heaven itself in the exquisite figure that floated before her supported on a wreath of angels, the white robe falling about her in veiling folds, and the long cerulean scarf full of that same wind that shook the house wherein waited the Apostles and the Marys when the Holy Ghost descended upon them. The two little hands were pressed palm to palm, the long black hair fell down her shoulders, her large black eyes, fixed on some dawning, ineffable glory, were full of a solemn radiance, her delicate face was like a white lily in the sunshine. The figure was at once childlike, angelic, and imposing.