His arm, supporting with difficulty the weight of the robe, was raised,--the hand blessed.

On either side of him rose great fans of white ostrich feathers, and the old man among them was whiter than they, spectrally white from head to foot, save for the triple cap, and the devices on his robe.

But into his emaciation, his weakness, the artist had thrown a triumph, a force that thrilled the spectator.

The small figure, hovering above the crowd, seemed in truth to have nothing to do with it, to be alone with the huge spaces--arch on arch--dome on dome--of the vast church through which it was being borne .-- 'Do you know who it is ?' asked Mrs.Burgoyne, smiling.
'The--the Pope ?' said Miss Foster, wondering.
'Isn't it clever?
It is by one of your compatriots, an American artist in Rome.

Isn't it wonderful too, the way in which it shows you, not the Pope--but the Papacy--not the man but the Church ?' Miss Foster said nothing.