ardianship, and surprising her out of secrets which she might
afterwards bitterly regret betraying to him. Therefore, though yearning
to know what had happened, he resolved to forbear further question.

Simple and earnest people, however, being accustomed to speak from their
genuine impulses, cannot easily, as craftier men do, avoid the subject
which they have at heart. As often as the sculptor unclosed his lips,
such words as these were ready to burst out:--"Hilda, have you flung
your angelic purity into that mass of unspeakable corruption, the Roman
Church?"

"What were you saying?" she asked, as Kenyon forced back an almost
uttered exclamation of this kind.

"I was thinking of what you have just remarked about the cathedral,"
said he, looking up into the mighty hollow of the dome. "It is indeed
a magnificent structure, and an adequate expression of the Faith which
built it. When I behold it in a proper mood,--that is to say, when I
bring my mind into a fair relation with the minds and purposes of its
spiritual and material architects,--I see but one or two criticisms to
make. One is, that it needs painted windows."

"O, no!" said Hilda. "They would be quite inconsistent with so much
richness of color in the interior of the church. Besides, it is a Gothic
ornament, and only suited to that style of architecture, which requires
a gorgeous dimness."

"Nevertheless," continued the sculptor, "yonder square apertures,
filled with ordinary panes of glass, are quite out of keeping with the
superabundant splendor of everything about them. They remind me of that
portion of Aladdin's palace which he left unfinished, in order that
his royal father-in-law might put the finishing touch. Daylight, in its
natural state, ought not to be admitted here. It should stream through a
brilliant illusion of saints and hierarchies, and old scriptural images,
and symbolized dogmas, purple, blue, golden, and a broad flame of
scarlet. Then, it would be just such an illumination as the Catholic
faith allows to its believers. But, give me--to live and die in--the
pure, white light of heaven!"

"Why do you look so sorrowfully at me?" asked Hilda, quietly meeting his
disturbed gaze. "What would you say to me? I love the white light too!"

"I fancied so," answered Kenyon. "Forgive me, Hilda; but I must needs
speak. You seemed to me a rare mixture of impressibility, sympathy,
sensitiveness to many influences, with a certain quality of common
se