life."

"None," said Donatello, shuddering. "We know it well."

"None," repeated Miriam, also shuddering. "United--miserably entangled
with me, rather--by a bond of guilt, our union might be for eternity,
indeed, and most intimate;--but, through all that endless duration, I
should be conscious of his horror."

"Not for earthly bliss, therefore," said Kenyon, "but for mutual
elevation, and encouragement towards a severe and painful life, you take
each other's hands. And if, out of toil, sacrifice, prayer, penitence,
and earnest effort towards right things, there comes at length a sombre
and thoughtful, happiness, taste it, and thank Heaven! So that you live
not for it,--so that it be a wayside flower, springing along a path that
leads to higher ends,--it will be Heaven's gracious gift, and a token
that it recognizes your union here below."

"Have you no more to say?" asked Miriam earnestly. "There is matter of
sorrow and lofty consolation strangely mingled in your words."

"Only this, dear Miriam," said the sculptor; "if ever in your lives
the highest duty should require from either of you the sacrifice of the
other, meet the occasion without shrinking. This is all."

While Kenyon spoke, Donatello had evidently taken in the ideas which he
propounded, and had ennobled them by the sincerity of his reception.
His aspect unconsciously assumed a dignity, which, elevating his former
beauty, accorded with the change that had long been taking place in his
interior self. He was a man, revolving grave and deep thoughts in his
breast. He still held Miriam's hand; and there they stood, the beautiful
man, the beautiful woman, united forever, as they felt, in the
presence of these thousand eye-witnesses, who gazed so curiously at the
unintelligible scene. Doubtless the crowd recognized them as lovers,
and fancied this a betrothal that was destined to result in lifelong
happiness. And possibly it might be so. Who can tell where happiness may
come; or where, though an expected guest, it may never show its face?
Perhaps--shy, subtle thing--it had crept into this sad marriage bond,
when the partners would have trembled at its presence as a crime.

"Farewell!" said Kenyon; "I go to Rome."

"Farewell, true friend!" said Miriam.

"Farewell!" said Donatello too. "May you be happy. You have no guilt to
make you shrink from happiness."

At this moment it so chanced that all the three friends by one impulse
glanced upward at the stat