s passing through his mind, the pillared door, at
the upper end of the saloon, was partly opened, and Miriam appeared. She
was very pale, and dressed in deep mourning. As she advanced towards the
sculptor, the feebleness of her step was so apparent that he made haste
to meet her, apprehending that she might sink down on the marble floor,
without the instant support of his arm.

But, with a gleam of her natural self-reliance, she declined his aid,
and, after touching her cold hand to his, went and sat down on one of
the cushioned divans that were ranged against the wall.

"You are very ill, Miriam!" said Kenyon, much shocked at her appearance.
"I had not thought of this."

"No; not so ill as I seem to you," she answered; adding despondently,
"yet I am ill enough, I believe, to die, unless some change speedily
occurs."

"What, then, is your disorder?" asked the sculptor; "and what the
remedy?"

"The disorder!" repeated Miriam. "There is none that I know of save too
much life and strength, without a purpose for one or the other. It is
my too redundant energy that is slowly--or perhaps rapidly--wearing me
away, because I can apply it to no use. The object, which I am bound to
consider my only one on earth, fails me utterly. The sacrifice which I
yearn to make of myself, my hopes, my everything, is coldly put aside.
Nothing is left for me but to brood, brood, brood, all day, all night,
in unprofitable longings and repinings."

"This is very sad, Miriam," said Kenyon.

"Ay, indeed; I fancy so," she replied, with a short, unnatural laugh.

"With all your activity of mind," resumed he, "so fertile in plans as
I have known you, can you imagine no method of bringing your resources
into play?"

"My mind is not active any longer," answered Miriam, in a cold,
indifferent tone. "It deals with one thought and no more. One
recollection paralyzes it. It is not remorse; do not think it! I put
myself out of the question, and feel neither regret nor penitence on
my own behalf. But what benumbs me, what robs me of all power,-it is
no secret for a woman to tell a man, yet I care not though you know it,
--is the certainty that I am, and must ever be, an object of horror in
Donatello's sight."

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