The Birmingham age-herald., 1911-05-07

1 but he lay there careless of them all with | his face turned towards the stars. The procession passes 'Is it a priest?' priesty garments. "No," she replied, but
 he was a young man never married, and
 so, by reason of his condition, they put on
 him the priestly robes"
 50 l." said Enrica. If I should die
 would be robed in white as you saw
 me on Carnival night-and be followed by nuns for my sisters" "A long way
 off hope, Enrica, may it be-" L re-
 turned. She took my hand in hers and
 pressed it. An Italian does not fear to
 talk of death, and we were talking of I it still as we walked back to my little parlor, my hand in hers all the time, and sat down by the blazing fire. It was Hooly Week, and never had Enrica looked more sweetly than in that black dress-under that long black veil of
 the days of Lent. I was to leave Rome after Easter. I did not like to speak
 of it-nor to think of it. But Easter comes and passes with the glory of ST.
 Peters lighted from top to bottom.
 The next day l bring home my last
 bunch of flowers, and with it richly chased Roman ring.
 | l heard them stirring early on the | morning on which I was to go away.
 l do not think I slept very well my self-nor very late. Never did Enrica took more beautiful-never. She took a single rosebud from her bosom and handed it to me with a trembling hand,
 I did not (for I could not) thank her. She knew it; and her eyes were full The old man kissed my cheek-it was | the Roman custom, but did not extend | to the Roman girls. As I passed down Coros l looked back at the balcony knew She would be there-and she was I My eyes dwelt on the vision very loath to leave it, and after my eyes had lost it my heart cltng to it | there where my memory still clings.
 i At noon the carriage stopped upon
 the hills toward Soracte which over- | looked Rome. There was a stunted pine tree growing, little to one side of the road, and I sat down under it
 and loked back with a strange tumult of feeling toward the Eternal cityS l ! seemed to see Enrica as she had been
 that morning. Her silvery voice, too, seemed to float out past me bearin g
 snatches of Roman songs-but the songs were sad and broken. After all
 this is a sad vanity, thought l. And yet if I had then spied some returning g
 carriage going down toward Rome l will not say but that l should have haile6 ia nlppa and
 back and to this day perhaps have lived in Rome But the vetturino call
 ed me; the coach was ready-I gave
 one more look toward the city and then we galloped along the road that leads to Perugia and Lake Thrasimene. Sweet
 Enrica, art thou living yet2 Or hast thou passed away to the silent land where the good sleep and the beauti- full? The vision of the past fades.
 The morning breeze has died upon the meadows of life. The trees lean to- ward the brook. but their shadows fall straight and dense upon the silver stream. Noon has broken into the mid dle sky and the morning of my life has gone. The noon is short; the sun never loiters in the meridian nor does the shadow on the old dial in the gar den stay long at XII. The past be- longs to God, the present only is ours. And sh ort as 1t is, there is more in it than we can well manage. That man
 who can grapple it and measure it and fill it with his purpose is doing a man S work; none can do more. But there are thousands who do less. Memory presdcs over the past action presides over the