Miriam was the dearest friend whom she had ever known. Being a year or

two the elder, of longer acquaintance with Italy, and better fitted to

deal with its crafty and selfish inhabitants, she had helped Hilda to

arrange her way of life, and had encouraged her through those first

weeks, when Rome is so dreary to every newcomer.

"But how lucky that you are at home today," said Miriam, continuing the

conversation which was begun, many pages back. "I hardly hoped to find

you, though I had a favor to ask,--a commission to put into your charge.

But what picture is this?"

"See!" said Hilda, taking her friend's hand, and leading her in front of

the easel. "I wanted your opinion of it."

"If you have really succeeded," observed Miriam, recognizing the picture

at the first glance, "it will be the greatest miracle you have yet

achieved."

The picture represented simply a female head; a very youthful, girlish,

perfectly beautiful face, enveloped in white drapery, from beneath which

strayed a lock or two of what seemed a rich, though hidden luxuriance

of auburn hair. The eyes were large and brown, and met those of the

spectator, but evidently with a strange, ineffectual effort to escape.

There was a little redness about the eyes, very slightly indicated, so

that you would question whether or no the girl had been weeping. The

whole face was quiet; there was no distortion or disturbance of any

single feature; nor was it easy to see why the expression was not

cheerful, or why a single touch of the artist's pencil should not

brighten it into joyousness. But, in fact, it was the very saddest

picture ever painted or conceived; it involved an unfathomable depth of

sorrow, the sense of which came to the observer by a sort of intuition.

It was a sorrow that removed this beautiful girl out of the sphere

of humanity, and set her in a far-off region, the remoteness of

which--while yet her face is so close before us--makes us shiver as at a

spectre.

"Yes, Hilda," said her friend, after closely examining the picture,

"you have done nothing else so wonderful as this. But by what unheard-of

solicitations or secret interest have you obtained leave to copy Guido's

Beatrice Cenci? It is an unexampled favor; and the impossibility

of getting a genuine copy has filled the Roman picture shops with

Beatrices, gay, grievous, or coquettish, but never a true one among

them."

"There has been one exquisite copy, I have heard," said Hilda, "by

an artist capable of appreciating the spirit of the picture. It was

Thompson, who brought it away piecemeal, being forbidden (like the

rest of us) to set up his easel before it. As for me, I knew the Prince

Barberini would be deaf to all entreaties; so I had no resource but

to sit down before the picture, day after day, and let it sink into my

heart. I do believe it is now photographed there. It is a sad face to

keep so close to one's heart; only what is so very beautiful can never

be quite a pain. Well; after studying it in this way, I know not how

many times, I came home, and have done my best to transfer the image to

canvas."




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