s to spring beneath the feet, if the spoken
word be graciously received. He was resolved to make proof whether
the kindness that Hilda evinced for him was the precious token of an
individual preference, or merely the sweet fragrance of her disposition,
which other friends might share as largely as himself. He would try if
it were possible to take this shy, yet frank, and innocently fearless
creature captive, and imprison her in his heart, and make her sensible
of a wider freedom there, than in all the world besides.

It was hard, we must allow, to see the shadow of a wintry sunset falling
upon a day that was to have been so bright, and to find himself just
where yesterday had left him, only with a sense of being drearily
balked, and defeated without an opportunity for struggle. So much had
been anticipated from these now vanished hours, that it seemed as if no
other day could bring back the same golden hopes.

In a case like this, it is doubtful whether Kenyon could have done a
much better thing than he actually did, by going to dine at the Cafe
Nuovo, and drinking a flask of Montefiascone; longing, the while, for a
beaker or two of Donatello's Sunshine. It would have been just the wine
to cure a lover's melancholy, by illuminating his heart with tender
light and warmth, and suggestions of undefined hopes, too ethereal for
his morbid humor to examine and reject them.

No decided improvement resulting from the draught of Montefiascone, he
went to the Teatro Argentino, and sat gloomily to see an Italian
comedy, which ought to have cheered him somewhat, being full of glancing
merriment, and effective over everybody's disabilities except his own.
The sculptor came out, however, before the close of the performance, as
disconsolate as he went in.

As he made his way through the complication of narrow streets, which
perplex that portion of the city, a carriage passed him. It was driven
rapidly, but not too fast for the light of a gas-lamp to flare upon a
face within--especially as it was bent forward, appearing to recognize
him, while a beckoning hand was protruded from the window. On his part,
Kenyon at once knew the face, and hastened to the carriage, which had
now stopped.

"Miriam! you in Rome?" he exclaimed "And your friends know nothing of
it?"

"Is all well with you?" she asked.

This inquiry, in the identical words which Donatello had so recently
addressed to him from beneath the penitent's mask, startled the