When the last of the twelve strokes had fallen from the cathedral clock,

Kenyon threw his eyes over the busy scene of the market place, expecting

to discern Miriam somewhere in the 'crowd. He looked next towards the

cathedral itself, where it was reasonable to imagine that she might have

taken shelter, while awaiting her appointed time. Seeing no trace of

her in either direction, his eyes came back from their quest somewhat

disappointed, and rested on a figure which was leaning, like Donatello

and himself, on the iron balustrade that surrounded the statue. Only a

moment before, they two had been alone.

It was the figure of a woman, with her head bowed on her hands, as if

she deeply felt--what we have been endeavoring to convey into our feeble

description--the benign and awe-inspiring influence which the pontiff's

statue exercises upon a sensitive spectator. No matter though it were

modelled for a Catholic chief priest, the desolate heart, whatever be

its religion, recognizes in that image the likeness of a father.

"Miriam," said the sculptor, with a tremor in his voice, "is it

yourself?"

"It is I," she replied; "I am faithful to my engagement, though with

many fears." She lifted her head, and revealed to Kenyon--revealed to

Donatello likewise--the well-remembered features of Miriam. They were

pale and worn, but distinguished even now, though less gorgeously, by

a beauty that might be imagined bright enough to glimmer with its own

light in a dim cathedral aisle, and had no need to shrink from the

severer test of the mid-day sun. But she seemed tremulous, and hardly

able to go through with a scene which at a distance she had found

courage to undertake.

"You are most welcome, Miriam!" said the sculptor, seeking to afford

her the encouragement which he saw she so greatly required. "I have

a hopeful trust that the result of this interview will be propitious.

Come; let me lead you to Donatello."

"No, Kenyon, no!" whispered Miriam, shrinking back; "unless of his own

accord he speaks my name,--unless he bids me stay,--no word shall ever

pass between him and me. It is not that I take upon me to be proud at

this late hour. Among other feminine qualities, I threw away my pride

when Hilda cast me off."

"If not pride, what else restrains you?" Kenyon asked, a little angry at

her unseasonable scruples, and also at this half-complaining reference

to Hilda's just severity. "After daring so much, it is no time for fear!

If we let him part from you without a word, your opportunity of doing

him inestimable good is lost forever."

"True; it will be lost forever!" repeated Miriam sadly. "But, dear

friend, will it be my fault? I willingly fling my woman's pride at his

feet. But--do you not see?--his heart must be left freely to its own

decision whether to recognize me, because on his voluntary choice

depends the whole question whether my devotion will do him good or

harm. Except he feel an infinite need of me, I am a burden and fatal

obstruction to him!"




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