In his unstrung and despondent mood, one trifling circumstance affected

him with an idle pang. The doves had at first been faithful to their

lost mistress. They failed not to sit in a row upon her window-sill,

or to alight on the shrine, or the church-angels, and on the roofs

and portals of the neighboring houses, in evident expectation of her

reappearance. After the second week, however, they began to take flight,

and dropping off by pairs, betook themselves to other dove-cotes. Only a

single dove remained, and brooded drearily beneath the shrine. The

flock that had departed were like the many hopes that had vanished

from Kenyon's heart; the one that still lingered, and looked so

wretched,--was it a Hope, or already a Despair?

In the street, one day, the sculptor met a priest of mild and venerable

aspect; and as his mind dwelt continually upon Hilda, and was especially

active in bringing up all incidents that had ever been connected with

her, it immediately struck him that this was the very father with whom

he had seen her at the confessional. Such trust did Hilda inspire

in him, that Kenyon had never asked what was the subject of the

communication between herself and this old priest. He had no reason for

imagining that it could have any relation with her disappearance,

so long subsequently; but, being thus brought face to face with a

personage, mysteriously associated, as he now remembered, with her whom

he had lost, an impulse ran before his thoughts and led the sculptor to

address him.

It might be that the reverend kindliness of the old man's expression

took Kenyon's heart by surprise; at all events, he spoke as if there

were a recognized acquaintanceship, and an object of mutual interest

between them.

"She has gone from me, father," said he.

"Of whom do you speak, my son?" inquired the priest.

"Of that sweet girl," answered Kenyon, "who knelt to you at the

confessional. Surely you remember her, among all the mortals to whose

confessions you have listened! For she alone could have had no sins to

reveal."

"Yes; I remember," said the priest, with a gleam of recollection in his

eyes. "She was made to bear a miraculous testimony to the efficacy of

the divine ordinances of the Church, by seizing forcibly upon one of

them, and finding immediate relief from it, heretic though she was.

It is my purpose to publish a brief narrative of this miracle, for

the edification of mankind, in Latin, Italian, and English, from the

printing press of the Propaganda. Poor child! Setting apart her heresy,

she was spotless, as you say. And is she dead?"

"Heaven forbid, father!" exclaimed Kenyon, shrinking back. "But she has

gone from me, I know not whither. It may be--yes, the idea seizes upon

my mind--that what she revealed to you will suggest some clew to the

mystery of her disappearance.'"




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