The sculptor--a young man, and cherishing a love which insulated

him from the wild experiences which some men gather--was startled to

perceive how Miriam's rich, ill-regulated nature impelled her to

fling herself, conscience and all, on one passion, the object of which

intellectually seemed far beneath her.

"How have you obtained the certainty of which you speak?" asked he,

after a pause.

"O, by a sure token," said Miriam; "a gesture, merely; a shudder, a cold

shiver, that ran through him one sunny morning when his hand happened to

touch mine! But it was enough."

"I firmly believe, Miriam," said the sculptor, "that he loves you

still."

She started, and a flush of color came tremulously over the paleness of

her cheek.

"Yes," repeated Kenyon, "if my interest in Donatello--and in yourself,

Miriam--endows me with any true insight, he not only loves you still,

but with a force and depth proportioned to the stronger grasp of his

faculties, in their new development."

"Do not deceive me," said Miriam, growing pale again.

"Not for the world!" replied Kenyon. "Here is what I take to be

the truth. There was an interval, no doubt, when the horror of some

calamity, which I need not shape out in my conjectures, threw Donatello

into a stupor of misery. Connected with the first shock there was an

intolerable pain and shuddering repugnance attaching themselves to

all the circumstances and surroundings of the event that so terribly

affected him. Was his dearest friend involved within the horror of that

moment? He would shrink from her as he shrank most of all from himself.

But as his mind roused itself,--as it rose to a higher life than he had

hitherto experienced,--whatever had been true and permanent within him

revived by the selfsame impulse. So has it been with his love."

"But, surely," said Miriam, "he knows that I am here! Why, then, except

that I am odious to him, does he not bid me welcome?"

"He is, I believe, aware of your presence here," answered the sculptor.

"Your song, a night or two ago, must have revealed it to him, and, in

truth, I had fancied that there was already a consciousness of it in

his mind. But, the more passionately he longs for your society, the more

religiously he deems himself bound to avoid it. The idea of a lifelong

penance has taken strong possession of Donatello. He gropes blindly

about him for some method of sharp self-torture, and finds, of course,

no other so efficacious as this."

"But he loves me," repeated Miriam, in a low voice, to herself. "Yes; he

loves me!"

It was strange to observe the womanly softness that came over her,

as she admitted that comfort into her bosom. The cold, unnatural

indifference of her manner, a kind of frozen passionateness which had

shocked and chilled the sculptor, disappeared. She blushed, and turned

away her eyes, knowing that there was more surprise and joy in their

dewy glances than any man save one ought to detect there.




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