Up such a staircase, on the morning after the scene at the sculpture

gallery, sprang the light foot of Donatello. He ascended from story

to story, passing lofty doorways, set within rich frames of sculptured

marble, and climbing unweariedly upward, until the glories of the first

piano and the elegance of the middle height were exchanged for a sort of

Alpine region, cold and naked in its aspect. Steps of rough stone, rude

wooden balustrades, a brick pavement in the passages, a dingy whitewash

on the walls; these were here the palatial features. Finally, he paused

before an oaken door, on which was pinned a card, bearing the name of

Miriam Schaefer, artist in oils. Here Donatello knocked, and the door

immediately fell somewhat ajar; its latch having been pulled up by means

of a string on the inside. Passing through a little anteroom, he found

himself in Miriam's presence.

"Come in, wild Faun," she said, "and tell me the latest news from

Arcady!"

The artist was not just then at her easel, but was busied with the

feminine task of mending a pair of gloves.

There is something extremely pleasant, and even touching,--at least,

of very sweet, soft, and winning effect,--in this peculiarity of

needlework, distinguishing women from men. Our own sex is incapable of

any such by-play aside from the main business of life; but women--be

they of what earthly rank they may, however gifted with intellect or

genius, or endowed with awful beauty--have always some little handiwork

ready to fill the tiny gap of every vacant moment. A needle is familiar

to the fingers of them all. A queen, no doubt, plies it on occasion; the

woman poet can use it as adroitly as her pen; the woman's eye, that has

discovered a new star, turns from its glory to send the polished little

instrument gleaming along the hem of her kerchief, or to darn a casual

fray in her dress. And they have greatly the advantage of us in this

respect. The slender thread of silk or cotton keeps them united with

the small, familiar, gentle interests of life, the continually operating

influences of which do so much for the health of the character, and

carry off what would otherwise be a dangerous accumulation of morbid

sensibility. A vast deal of human sympathy runs along this electric

line, stretching from the throne to the wicker chair of the humblest

seamstress, and keeping high and low in a species of communion with

their kindred beings. Methinks it is a token of healthy and gentle

characteristics, when women of high thoughts and accomplishments love

to sew; especially as they are never more at home with their own hearts

than while so occupied.

And when the work falls in a woman's lap, of its own accord, and the

needle involuntarily ceases to fly, it is a sign of trouble, quite as

trustworthy as the throb of the heart itself. This was what happened

to Miriam. Even while Donatello stood gazing at her, she seemed to have

forgotten his presence, allowing him to drop out of her thoughts, and

the torn glove to fall from her idle fingers. Simple as he was, the

young man knew by his sympathies that something was amiss.




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