o light again."

"I fancy you are mistaken," replied Hilda, smiling. "There was a meaning
and purpose in each of its seven branches, and such a candlestick cannot
be lost forever. When it is found again, and seven lights are kindled
and burning in it, the whole world will gain the illumination which
it needs. Would not this be an admirable idea for a mystic story or
parable, or seven-branched allegory, full of poetry, art, philosophy,
and religion? It shall be called 'The Recovery of the Sacred
Candlestick.' As each branch is lighted, it shall have a differently
colored lustre from the other six; and when all the seven are kindled,
their radiance shall combine into the intense white light of truth."

"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