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EFORE Leonardo's picture of the Virgin, the Child, and St. Anne, in the Louvre, Teresa had lingered for some time. The expression of maternity in its two phases fascinated her; the caressing, youthful attitude of the Virgin as she leans toward the child, full of joy in its grace; and above all the face of St. Anne smiling on the two, with a whole world of sad and deep experience behind the smile. Teresa stood with her two gloved hands on the railing, studying the marvellous sweetness of that face. Her own was grave and wistful. She was pale and languid in the heat of the day; dressed in thin trailing black, except for the white gloves wrinkling up to her elbows, and she was alone.

She looked with sad eyes at the Virgin's face. There was happy maternity, physical and spiritual joy. Why had not such happiness come to her? Was it her fault that she had not desired her first child? Was it her fault that she had lost the second? Her eyes filled with tears.

She turned away, remembering an appointment with Nina, and came face to face with a man whom she had noticed vaguely as he entered the room, soon after herself. She had been con-