distance is une spire of une пttie village cnurcn Angelus has just chimed out the hour of evenin r, and the peasants have paused in their worl ank God for his goodness.

let received one hundred dollars for this grea -e, but after his death it was sold for one hun housand dollars. The Angelus was sent from o city, and great crowds of people went to see it ight of the poor peasant people at prayer brough to the eyes of many. We wish that the painte s famous picture might have lived to hear th =of praise that it received.

let lived for twenty-six years in the village o zon. There he died in 1875, at the age of sixty After his death his portrait was modeled in and placed high on a rock in the forest nea d home.

"Stories of Great Artists."

- KATHRINE LOIS SCOBEY.

ble near the door, a feeble, whitemaking up some packages of books. hem in a large basket, he stops now ough disturbed by pain. He puts side; he coughs in a most distresse sits down and rests himself, lean-on the table.

calls.

corner of the room there is a young ng from a large book that is spread He is a very odd-looking fellow years of age, but you would take He is large and awkward, with a , scarred and marked by a strange sight must be poor, for, as he reads, til his face is quite near the printed

ain the old man calls.

"that to-morrow

ou know, Samuel," he says, rket day at Uttoxeter, and our stall must b led to. Some of our friends will be there t at the new books which they expect me to bring f us must go down on the stage this mornin et everything in readiness. But I hardly fee for the journey. My cough troubles me quit e, and you see that it is raining very hard." es, father, I am sorry," answers Samuel; an ce is again bent over the book.

thought perhaps you would go down to th et, and that I might stay here at the shop, his father. But Samuel does not hear. He i in the study of some Latin classic.

e old man goes to the door and looks out. Th is still falling. He shivers, and buttons h

is a twenty-mile ride to Uttoxeter. In fiv tes the stage will pass the door.

mais vi no, I do not know. He

d he makes no sign nor motion. s rattling down the street.

ith his basket of books staggers out e stage halts for a moment while Then the driver swings his whip,

shop, still bends over his book. Le rain is falling.

SCENE SECOND

have passed, and again it is market

ing in the streets.

The people who

huddle under the eaves and in the

that have roofs above them.

Lichfield pulls up at the entrance to

place and looks around. He seems not to -hat the rain is falling.

ooks at the little stalls ranged along the walls market place. Some have roofs over them. e the centers of noisy trade. Others have into disuse and are empty.

stranger halts before one of the latter. "Yes,

it," he says.

ud to himself.

He has a strange habit of talk

"I remember it well. It was

hat my father, on certain market days, sold to the clergy of the county. The good men rom every parish to see his wares and to hear scribe their contents."

turns abruptly around. "Yes, this is the he repeats.

tands quite still and upright, directly in front little old stall. He takes off his hat and holds ath his arm. He bows his head and clasps ds. His great walking stick escapes his grasp