FRANCESCA'S WORSHIP.

In the deep afternoon, when westering calms Brooded above the streets of Rome, and hushed Their noisier clamor, at her orisons, In San Domenico, Francesca knelt. All day her charities had overflowed For others. Husband, children, friends had claimed Service ungrudged; the poor had gotten their dole, Doubled by reason of her soothing hands; Sick eyes had lifted at her coming, as lifts The parcht Campagna grass at the cool kisses Of winds that have been dallying with the snows Of Alban mountain-tops. And now, released From outward ministries, and free to turn Inward, and up the solemn aisle of thought Conduct her soul, she bowed with open page Before the altar: "Tenuisti manum Dexteram meam." On her lips she held The words caressingly, as she would taste Each syllable and drain its separate sweetness, When, breaking on her still seclusion, came A messenger: "Sweet mistress, grace I pray! But unaware our lord hath come again, Bringing his gossips; and he bade me fetch My lady, if only for a one half hour, Saying the wine was flavorless without Her hand to pour it." At the word she rose, And unreluctant followed. No undertow Of hidden regret disturbed the azure calm Of those clear eyes that still reflected heaven. Then, when they all had drunk and been refreshed, And forth had ridden, Francesca sought her place, And pored again above the Psalter's leaf: "In voluntate tua deduxisti," Conning it over with a tender joy, As if she verily felt her human hand Close claspt in God's, and heard Him guiding her With audible counsel; when there fell a touch Upon her arm: "The Sister Barbara Comes seeking wherewithal to dress some wounds Got in a brawl upon the Esquiline." And now athwart the western windows streamed Rainbows of shafted light, as thither again Francesca came to read her "Offices." A beam, that seemed a golden pencil held Within the fingers of the Christ that glowed In the great oriel, pointed to the words Where she had paused to do the Sister's hest: "Cum gloria suscepisti me." She kissed The blazoned leaf, thanks nestling at her heart, That now, at last, no duty disallowing, Her loosened soul out through the sunset bars Might float, and catch heaven's crystal shimmer. But scarce Had meditation smoothed the wing of thought Before the hangings of the door were parted With yet a further summoning. From a Triton That spouted in the court her three-year boy, Who thither had climbed, had fallen, and naught would soothe The bruised brow save the sweet mother-kiss. "I come," she said, her forehead half divine With saintly patience. "For Thou wouldst teach me, Lord, That Thou art just as near me ministering At home as in these consecrated aisles; And 'tis true worship, pouring of the wine For him I love, or holding 'twixt my hands The little throbbing head; since where my duty Calls is the altar where I serve Thee best." When under the Campagna's purple rim The sun had sunken so long that all was gray, Softly across the dusky sacristy Francesca glided back. The Psalter lay Scarcely discernible amid the gloom; But lo the marvel! On the darken'd page The verse which thrice she had essayed to read Now shone illuminate, silver-clear, as though God's hand had written it with the flash of stars.