"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.




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