It was six months after, at the time of the wedding, that the portrait was painted. Giuseppe is in the centre. The brothers all said 'twas his place. Pietro has his cowl over his head, you see, but he is fat and hearty for all that. Domenico leans on a book, as ever, and the populace smile pleasantly and in a well-bred manner. Guido and his wife are side by side—the daring, jaunty, happy man and his high-born, full-throated, soft-eyed wife. And where is Barnaba? Just over her. Below her, even in the picture, he should have been, he thinks, and beside her, never, but once, in a play. Dear, poor, brave Barnaba! He has changed in the six months. His collar is as twisted, his hair as long and straight, and his eyes as full of wonder; but there are two new turns to his lips—smiling turns. "I've lost," they seem to say, "and I might have won. Life has treated me poorly, but I owe her no grudge. Guido and his wife have gone away. Giuseppe is visiting the poor. Pietro is at his priestly work—what is it? The others are back in their lives." Barnaba walks in the grove alone, and repeats to himself: "There is a road, and the name of it is Patience. The flowers that grow by it are few, but they are very sweet; and if you pluck them and weave them into a crown, the fragrance shall last forever." And Barnaba smiles.
Mary Murdoch Mason.
THE DEAD STAR.
Yonder in empty dark
Wanders, somewhere, a wasted sun, whose light,
Erst breathed abroad with life-creating spark,
Made hanging gardens of the circling night.
Through Time's dark emptiness