said he would die. After a little while
he prevailed on her to lead him to her
father, and entered a low white cottage.
Ascending a narrow staircase, he found himself
standing beside a bed, on which lay a
man, still young, but emaciated and parched
with fever. A pale young woman sat near
his pillow: his wife, the mother of the little
child. Strong compassion awoke in Eric's
heart. He comforted the weeping wife, and
gave her money to buy food for herself and
child, and medicines for her husband. As he
was leaving the cottage, he was met at the
door by a venerable old man, the priest of the
small village. Eric saluted him with deep respect;
said he had just been to see the poor
people above; and he thought the man looked
very ill. Then the priest, after learning from
him how he came to the village (he had been
out rambling, and had lost his way, he said),
offered to conduct him to the house of a
parishioner, where he would be well lodged
and taken care of.

"I am afraid the fever will spread; we
have another case in the village," the old
priest said to Eric, as they walked along.

"Who is it?" asked Eric.

"An artist, who came here to paint
an altar-piece for us. It was going on
rapidly, and was to have been finished
before this. Only a fortnight ago he was
seized with this fever; and a very bad
state he is in, poor fellow. Bad enough for
him, but bad for us too. We expected the
painting to have been ready before this, and
we had appointed the day after to-morrow
for a grand festa. The neighbouring gentry
had promised to be present at at; some rich
Englishmen from Rome too; and we expected
to make a good collection for our poor
against the winter. But now," added the old
priest, sorrowfully, "we  shall have no festa,
no collection; and our poor will starve next
winter, I fear."

"Is there no one you know of who could
finish the painting?" asked Eric.

"I have written to Rome," answered the
old priest, "but all the artists seem either
to be so busily employed, that they cannot
leave their work; or they do not care
to finish a picture already begun. I have
written to a young Englishman I know there;
but he also is away, and not expected home
for five days. I am sure he would have
come had he known our strait, and he will
come when he gets my letter; but it will
be too late then."

"Where is this painting?" asked Eric.
"Might I see it?"

"O! certainly, certainly," answered the
old priest; and he led the way to the village
church, a large and ancient one, and they
entered the building together; leaving
Schwartz stretched on the pavement outside.

They went towards the high altar. Above
it, and just beneath three beautiful painted
windows, hung the unfinished picture; on
a level with it, was the scaffold on which the
artist had worked.

"We cannot take the scaffold down before
the painting is finished; it cost too much to
put it up. The painting is given to us by a kind
lady friend who lives in the neighbourhood.
We were to find the artist, and she was to
pay him. It was she who suggested the idea
of a festa when it was finished, and a collection
for the poor."

"Is there not something wanting in the
group to complete the idea?"

"It is 'The child Christ teaching in the
Temple,'" answered the priest.

"But the principal figure is wanting," said
Eric; "the Divine Child."

"True—true."

Eric stood gazing on the half-finished
canvas; a glow spread over his countenance,
a bright light beamed from his eyes, and still
he stood gazing in silence upon it. The priest
looked at him; his face was changed.
From the time that he had taken the child
on his knees in the street; had spoken comfort
to the weeping mother; had entered into
the old priest's distress; peace had been
dawning in his mind again. And now
the full notes of an organ swelled through
the church, and a beautiful tenor voice poured
forth the words of a Latin anthem:

"The spirit of the Lord God is upon me,
because He hath appointed me to preach good
tidings to the meet; He hath sent me to bind
up the broken-hearted; to proclaim liberty to
the captives, the opening of the prison to them
that are bound; to proclaim the acceptable
year of the Lord."

Yes; "the opening of the prison to them
that are bound." The voice dwelt on that
verse again and again: "the opening of the
prison to them that are bound;" the loosing
of the dark chains bound around the captives
of Passion. The divine words came floating
down the aisle; Eric felt them thrilling in
his soul.

The melody changed; a full chorus of
voices burst forth in answer back to that
divine annoucement: "How beautiful upon
the mountains are the feet of him that
bringeth good tidings; good tidings of peace;
that sayeth unto Zion, They God reigneth!
Break forth into joy, sing together, oh ye
waste places of Jerusalem! Know ye that
to-day hath He spoken. Behold it is He!"

A Divine vision passed before Eric's eyes;
he saw the Glorious Child standing in the
vacant place; the Deliverer from the power
of the Evil One. As the music ceased, he
spoke to the priest:

"My father, I am an artist; I will finish
the picture. Where are the colours and the
pencils of the poor artist who lies ill?

"They can be fetched, my son," said the
good old priest, trembling with joy.

"I must begin instantly. I cannot sleep
till it is done. Can I have a light this evening
—one that will burn all night?"