"I presume," remarked Kenyon, "that this is the first of the feline race

that has ever set herself up as an object of worship, in the Pantheon or

elsewhere, since the days of ancient Egypt. See; there is a peasant from

the neighboring market, actually kneeling to her! She seems a gracious

and benignant saint enough."

"Do not make me laugh," said Hilda reproachfully, "but help me to drive

the creature away. It distresses me to see that poor man, or any human

being, directing his prayers so much amiss."

"Then, Hilda," answered the sculptor more seriously, "the only Place

in the Pantheon for you and me to kneel is on the pavement beneath

the central aperture. If we pray at a saint's shrine, we shall give

utterance to earthly wishes; but if we pray face to face with the

Deity, we shall feel it impious to petition for aught that is narrow and

selfish. Methinks it is this that makes the Catholics so delight in the

worship of saints; they can bring up all their little worldly wants and

whims, their individualities and human weaknesses, not as things to be

repented of, but to be humored by the canonized humanity to which they

pray. Indeed, it is very tempting!"

What Hilda might have answered must be left to conjecture; for as she

turned from the shrine, her eyes were attracted to the figure of a

female penitent, kneeling on the pavement just beneath the great central

eye, in the very spot which Kenyon had designated as the only one whence

prayers should ascend. The upturned face was invisible, behind a veil or

mask, which formed a part of the garb.

"It cannot be!" whispered Hilda, with emotion. "No; it cannot be!"

"What disturbs you?" asked Kenyon. "Why do you tremble so?"

"If it were possible," she replied, "I should fancy that kneeling figure

to be Miriam!"

"As you say, it is impossible," rejoined the sculptor; "We know too

well what has befallen both her and Donatello." "Yes; it is impossible!"

repeated Hilda. Her voice was still tremulous, however, and she seemed

unable to withdraw her attention from the kneeling figure. Suddenly,

and as if the idea of Miriam had opened the whole volume of Hilda's

reminiscences, she put this question to the sculptor: "Was Donatello

really a Faun?"

"If you had ever studied the pedigree of the far-descended heir of Monte

Beni, as I did," answered Kenyon, with an irrepressible smile, "you

would have retained few doubts on that point. Faun or not, he had a

genial nature, which, had the rest of mankind been in accordance with

it, would have made earth a paradise to our poor friend. It seems

the moral of his story, that human beings of Donatello's character,

compounded especially for happiness, have no longer any business on

earth, or elsewhere. Life has grown so sadly serious, that such men must

change their nature, or else perish, like the antediluvian creatures

that required, as the condition of their existence, a more summer-like

atmosphere than ours."




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