"Positively, Hilda, this is a magnificent conception," cried Kenyon.
"The more I look at it, the brighter it burns."
"I think so too," said Hilda, enjoying a childlike pleasure in her own
idea. "The theme is better suited for verse than prose; and when I go
home to America, I will suggest it to one of our poets. Or seven poets
might write the poem together, each lighting a separate branch of the
Sacred Candlestick."
"Then you think of going home?" Kenyon asked.
"Only yesterday," she replied, "I longed to flee away. Now, all is
changed, and, being happy again, I should feel deep regret at leaving
the Pictorial Land. But I cannot tell. In Rome, there is something
dreary and awful, which we can never quite escape. At least, I thought
so yesterday."
When they reached the Via Portoghese, and approached Hilda's tower, the
doves, who were waiting aloft, flung themselves upon the air, and came
floating down about her head. The girl caressed them, and responded to
their cooings with similar sounds from her own lips, and with words
of endearment; and their joyful flutterings and airy little flights,
evidently impelled by pure exuberance of spirits, seemed to show that
the doves had a real sympathy with their mistress's state of mind. For
peace had descended upon her like a dove.
Bidding the sculptor farewell, Hilda climbed her tower, and came forth
upon its summit to trim the Virgin's lamp. The doves, well knowing her
custom, had flown up thither to meet her, and again hovered about her
head; and very lovely was her aspect, in the evening Sunlight, which had
little further to do with the world just then, save to fling a golden
glory on Hilda's hair, and vanish.
Turning her eyes down into the dusky street which she had just quitted,
Hilda saw the sculptor still there, and waved her hand to him.
"How sad and dim he looks, down there in that dreary street!" she said
to herself. "Something weighs upon his spirits. Would I could comfort
him!"
"How like a spirit she looks, aloft there, with the evening glory round
her head, and those winged creatures claiming her as akin to them!"
thought Kenyon, on his part. "How far above me! how unattainable! Ah,
if I could lift myself to her region! Or--if it be not a sin to wish
it--would that I might draw her down to an earthly fireside!"
What a sweet reverence is that, when a young man deems his mistress a
little more than mortal, and almost chides himself for longing to bring
her close to his heart! A trifling circumstance, but such as lovers
make much of, gave him hope. One of the doves, which had been resting on
Hilda's shoulder, suddenly flew downward, as if recognizing him as its
mistress's dear friend; and, perhaps commissioned with an errand of
regard, brushed his upturned face with its wings, and again soared
aloft.