THERE once stood such a queer

Little church in Turin, -

Long destroyed, as I fear.

Dim and quaint 't was within,

With its pictures, once bright,

And the curious panes

In its windows. The light,

As it passed, took their stains,

And their purples and reds

Like a glory were cast

On the garments and heads

Of the monks as they passed

To and fro. In the heat

Of a warm July day

I had taken a seat,

For a rest by the way,

On its steps; when there came

Toward the church, gray and bent,

Such a poor, weak, old dame

That I naturally went

To her aid. At the door

Hung a curtain of hides

Thick and stiff, studded o'er

With brass rivets besides.

This I raised until she

Should pass under. The crone,

With a grace that we see

In her country alone,

As she passed bowed her head,

Pressed her lips to my hand,

And impulsively said:

"May God bless you, and send

From his heaven above

One to hold back for you

Thus in kindness and love

The dark curtain of sin

That shuts from our view

All the brightness within!"

W. F. K.