But above him the clouds were torn asunder, and through a transparent veil of light golden mist, a face of surpassing beauty was seen--a face on which youth, health, hope, love, and ecstatic joy all shone with ineffable radiance.

It was the personification of Life--not life as we know it, brief and full of care--but Life Immortal and Love Triumphant.

Often and often I found myself standing before this masterpiece of Cellini's genius, gazing at it, not only with admiration, but with a sense of actual comfort.

One afternoon, while resting in my favourite low chair opposite the picture, I roused myself from a reverie, and turning to the artist, who was showing some water-colour sketches to Mrs.Everard, I said abruptly: "Did you imagine that face of the Angel of Life, Signor Cellini, or had you a model to copy from ?" He looked at me and smiled.
"It is a moderately good portrait of an existing original," he said.
"A woman's face then, I suppose?
How very beautiful she must be!" "Actual beauty is sexless," he replied, and was silent.

The expression of his face had become abstracted and dreamy, and he turned over the sketches for Mrs.Everard with an air which showed his thoughts to be far away from his occupation.
"And the Death Angel ?" I went on.