sculptor. Either the previous disquietude of his mind, or some tone in
Miriam's voice, or the unaccountableness of beholding her there at all,
made it seem ominous.

"All is well, I believe," answered he doubtfully. "I am aware of no
misfortune. Have you any to announce'?"

He looked still more earnestly at Miriam, and felt a dreamy uncertainty
whether it was really herself to whom he spoke. True; there were those
beautiful features, the contour of which he had studied too often, and
with a sculptor's accuracy of perception, to be in any doubt that it was
Miriam's identical face. But he was conscious of a change, the nature of
which he could not satisfactorily define; it might be merely her dress,
which, imperfect as the light was, he saw to be richer than the simple
garb that she had usually worn. The effect, he fancied, was partly owing
to a gem which she had on her bosom; not a diamond, but something that
glimmered with a clear, red lustre, like the stars in a southern sky.
Somehow or other, this colored light seemed an emanation of herself,
as if all that was passionate and glowing in her native disposition
had crystallized upon her breast, and were just now scintillating more
brilliantly than ever, in sympathy with some emotion of her heart.

Of course there could be no real doubt that it was Miriam, his artist
friend, with whom and Hilda he had spent so many pleasant and familiar
hours, and whom he had last seen at Perugia, bending with Donatello
beneath the bronze pope's benediction. It must be that selfsame Miriam;
but the sensitive sculptor felt a difference of manner, which impressed
him more than he conceived it possible to be affected by so external a
thing. He remembered the gossip so prevalent in Rome on Miriam's first
appearance; how that she was no real artist, but the daughter of an
illustrious or golden lineage, who was merely playing at necessity;
mingling with human struggle for her pastime; stepping out of her native
sphere only for an interlude, just as a princess might alight from her
gilded equipage to go on foot through a rustic lane. And now, after a
mask in which love and death had performed their several parts, she had
resumed her proper character.

"Have you anything to tell me?" cried he impatiently; for nothing causes
a more disagreeable vibration of the nerves than this perception of
ambiguousness in familiar persons or affairs. "Speak; for my spirits and
patience have been much tried