“ULLAINEE”.

He sat beside that lonely grave for long,

He took its grasses in his trembling hand,

He toyed with them and wet them with his tears,

He read the name again, and still again,

He thought a thousand thoughts, and then he thought

It all might be a dream — then rubbed his eyes

And read the name again to be more sure;

Then wondered and then wept — then asked himself:

“What means it all? Can this be Ethel's grave?

I dreamed her soul had fled.

Was she the white dove that I saw in dream

Fly o'er the sleeping sea so long ago?”

The convent bell

Rang sweet upon the breeze, and answered him

His question. And he rose and went his way

Unto the convent gate; long shadows marked

One hour before the sunset, and the birds

Were singing Vespers in the convent trees.

As silent as a star-gleam came a nun

In answer to his summons at the gate;

Her face was like the picture of a saint,

Or like an angel's smile; her downcast eyes

Were like a half-closed tabernacle, where

God's presence glowed; her lips were pale and worn

By ceaseless prayer; and when she sweetly spoke,

And bade him enter,‘ twas in such a tone

As only voices own which day and night

Sing hymns to God.

She locked the massive gate.

He followed her along a flower-fringed walk

That, gently rising, led up to the home

Of virgin hearts. The very flowers that bloomed

Within the place, in beds of sacred shapes,

( For they had fashioned them with holy care,

Into all holy forms — a chalice, a cross,

And sacred hearts — and many saintly names,

That, when their eyes would fall upon the flowers,

Their souls might feast upon some mystic sign ),

Were fairer far within the convent walls,

And purer in their fragrance and their bloom

Than all their sisters in the outer world.

He went into a wide and humble room —

The floor was painted, and upon the walls,

In humble frames, most holy paintings hung;

Jesus and Mary and many an olden saint

Were there. And she, the veil-clad Sister, spoke:

“I'll call the mother,” and she bowed and went.

He waited in the wide and humble room,

The only room in that unworldly place

This world could enter; and the pictures looked

Upon his face and down into his soul,

And strangely stirred him. On the mantle stood

A crucifix, the figured Christ of which

Did seem to suffer; and he rose to look

More nearly on to it; but he shrank in awe

When he beheld a something in its face

Like his own face.

But more amazed he grew, when, at the foot

Of that strange crucifix he read the name —