a sealed packet in
her hand. As nearly as he could ascertain, this was within an hour
after Hilda had taken leave of the sculptor at his own studio, with the
understanding that they were to meet at the Vatican the next day. Two
nights, therefore, had intervened, during which the lost maiden was
unaccounted for.

The door of Hilda's apartments was still locked, as on the preceding
night; but Kenyon sought out the wife of the person who sublet them, and
prevailed on her to give him admittance by means of the duplicate key
which the good woman had in her possession. On entering, the maidenly
neatness and simple grace, recognizable in all the arrangements, made
him visibly sensible that this was the daily haunt of a pure soul, in
whom religion and the love of beauty were at one.

Thence, the sturdy Roman matron led the sculptor across a narrow
passage, and threw open the door of a small chamber, on the threshold of
which he reverently paused. Within, there was a bed, covered with white
drapery, enclosed with snowy curtains like a tent, and of barely width
enough for a slender figure to repose upon it. The sight of this cool,
airy, and secluded bower caused the lover's heart to stir as if enough
of Hilda's gentle dreams were lingering there to make him happy for
a single instant. But then came the closer consciousness of her loss,
bringing along with it a sharp sting of anguish.

"Behold, Signore," said the matron; "here is the little staircase by
which the signorina used to ascend and trim the Blessed Virgin's lamp.
She was worthy to be a Catholic, such pains the good child bestowed to
keep it burning; and doubtless the Blessed Mary will intercede for her,
in consideration of her pious offices, heretic though she was. What will
become of the old palazzo, now that the lamp is extinguished, the saints
above us only know! Will you mount, Signore, to the battlements, and see
if she have left any trace of herself there?"

The sculptor stepped across the chamber and ascended the little
staircase, which gave him access to the breezy summit of the tower. It
affected him inexpressibly to see a bouquet of beautiful flowers beneath
the shrine, and to recognize in them an offering of his own to Hilda,
who had put them in a vase of water, and dedicated them to the Virgin,
in a spirit partly fanciful, perhaps, but still partaking of the
religious sentiment which so profoundly influenced her character. One
rosebud, indeed, she had se