station perhaps. They rang out near the farm, were heard descending into a hollow; then, as the horses co

ra Lvovna was minding the infant; she talked with Alena for a while;

-covered sofa. The silent, moonlit night peered in through the blindless windows, through one of which was passed a wire. The telegraph-post stood cl

lence, Polunin broad-

ean, wiry,

cheese-cakes. She was a modest young woman

fare?" she asked shyly, inclining her he

oom. The tea-urn softly simmered and seethed, emitting a low, hissing sound in unison with that of the wires. The men took up their tea and returned to their chess. Vera

Goya, Vera Lvovna?" P

gh the History of Art

ash

ou know, there is another painter-Bosch. He has something more th

conversation to the subject of St. Francis d'Assisi. He had just been reading the Saint's works,

shadow-dance against the constellations. Orion, slanting and impressive, listed across a boundless sky, his starry belt gleaming as he approached his midnight post. In the wides

oved Cassiopeian Constellation, and gazed intently at the sturdy splendour of the Polar Star; then he wate

' nostrils issued grey, steamy cloudlets; Podubny, the stallion, rolled a great wondering eye round on his master, as thou

aby, bending over it humming a wordless lullaby. Polunin sat down by her when he came in and discussed domestic a

e law, of Alena and their household. The house was wrapped in utter silence, and he soon fell into t

ed, stirred, then rose gently from the enchanted caverns of the night and soared up into the sky with the s