tion to much of that literature of legend and romance that was later to become the painter's field of subjects. The two daughters of William Morris were often drawn by Burne-Jones, but never more successfully than in this study, with its effect of silver point, and with such utter

loveliness in the drawing of the hair that we are reminded of Leonardo. The mouth, with its characteristic upper lip, might be called the fascinating trademark of the Pre-Raphaelite school; while the eyes, differently revealed on account of the angle of the pose, are as

consummate in their drawing as the ear, a feature of the human head often thought ugly, but which, as all of the following drawings show, BurneJones never went out of his way to hide through the easy solution of locks of hair.

The sketch reproduced on this page is a delightful study of the nude, given with anatomical mastery and with appealing charm. There is solidity in all the richly shaded nude studies of this artist, to such an extent that often, as here, we get the sculptural suggestion of seeing around. the body, and say to

ourselves, "This could be the picture of a bronze or a marble." Sir Philip has left it unannotated, and so it may be wiser to refrain from the theory that this drawing is an unused study for "The Mirror of Venus," rejected by the painter when he decided that the pool itself should be the only mirror.

To the same period-1873-77wherein Burne-Jones completed "The Mirror of Venus," belongs "The Romaunt of the Rose" series, and the drawing on page 772 shows the completed figure of the

Pilgrim, who, under the name of L'Amant, was led by Love over arduous and pain-fraught passages of life. This drawing is preceded in the sketchbook by a nude study of the Pilgrim, and then by a study wherein the outlines of the body show under the long gown. In the third and final study, as here shown, the toilsome feet, the fragile, sorrowful hands, the shadowed face, are as vitally informed as the graceful drapery whose purposely vertical lines have an element of rigidity conforming, as it were, to the spiritual harassment of the way-worn Pilgrim.

Whether the sketch of two faces reproduced on this page (center) is related to the painting, "The Death of Medusa," left unfinished by Burne-Jones, I do not know. They would appear to be Medusa heads, the strangely opened mouths and widely opened eyes giving to these drawings the baffling expression of tragic masks. If we half close our own eyes and study these drawings, we can realize how po

tent was Burne-Jones in modeling faces by means of his genius for light and shade. This gift was his as truly as that power in outline achievement with just a modicum of shade, as shown in the succeeding profile drawing of a young girl, in whose appealing expression are the unanswered questions of thoughtful youth. It is a lovely drawing, indicating, as do so many drawings of Burne-Jones, his intellectual and esthetic affinity with the Florentine school, whose Fra Filippo, Verrocchio, Botticelli, and Leonardo were his spiritual and artistic forebears.

The other drawings-the head of a sleeping girl, another head with a scarf over the hair (page 769), and a woman's face seen in profile (page 769), with the same arrangement of the hair as shown in female figures in "Le Chant d'Amour" and "Love Disguised as Reason,' complete the series of drawings selected from a sketchbook which, if nothing else of Burne-Jones remained extant, would yet establish his title to enduring fame.

TW

WICE in the crowded omnibus Rochester had given up his seatonce to be thanked overmuch and embarrassingly, once to be hardly thanked at all. Somebody got out, and he sank into the empty place with a sigh of relief. He had had a busy day, and for this wretched Boys' Club concert at Islington, at which, in an expansive moment and for his sins, as he now thought, he had consented to play, he had snatched a hasty meal and hurried uncomfortably into his evening clothes. He disliked hasty meals as much as he disliked dressing quickly. Moreover, circumstances, in the shape of a series of unforeseen delays which had caused bim to come in late and to find his dinner waiting for him, had forced him to dress after instead of before eating; and that, as a reversal of the right and proper order of things, had its part in upsetting him. Then he could not get a taxi. Then, at the demands of an instinctive and very ready politeness, the bobbings up and down in the congested space of the omnibus. Ordinarily, he would have accepted cheerfully such trifling inconveniences. The manner, however, in which his two responses to the exigencies of the situation had been severally met, irritated him, and as he sat down for the third time he registered a mental vow that he would move no more till he reached the end of his journey. He had done his share. It was the turn of some one else.

For some time it seemed as if no further demands were to be made upon him. Those who were standing were male like himself. At Bond Street the gushing lady who had thanked him

overmuch alighted—pausing, in passing him, as, when he had seen her rise, he had an instinctive apprehension that she would, to smirk her thanks at him again.

"So kind of you. If you knew how guilty I felt! It was really too good of you."

"Not at all," he said. "Not at all," and restrained himself when she said: "Oh, but it was! In these days when one hardly even expects . . ." from telling her that she made altogether too much of what was, after all, a matter of course. A man does not sit when a woman is standing. Two other seated men had been nearer to her than he, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that she was using him for their admonishment. He caught the amused and unabashed eyes of one of them. Well, thank goodness, the woman, was gone. Her place was taken by another with a little boy whom she jerked up on her lap.

At Piccadilly Circus the young lady who had accepted his seat as a sort of right alighted also. Several others got out. Several others got in. Such of them as were women and one of the standing men found places. The discomfort was relieved, or at least relaxed. But he was out of sorts. He belonged sufficiently, by reason of his thirty-five years, to the spacious, easy days before the war, to appreciate, as a younger generation did not, the drastically changed, conditions of everything. Nothing was as it had been. The war which was to end war, and in which be had played his own little part at first with a very real zeal-though fighting for its own sake was the last thing that appealed