ich I possess in Rome, I can assure
you of her safety. In two days more--by the help of the special
Providence that, as I love to tell you, watches over Hilda--she shall
rejoin you."

"Still two days more!" murmured the sculptor.

"Ah, you are cruel now! More cruel than you know!" exclaimed Miriam,
with another gleam of that fantastic, fitful gayety, which had more than
once marked her manner during this interview. "Spare your poor friends!"

"I know not what you mean, Miriam," said Kenyon.

"No matter," she replied; "you will understand hereafter. But could
you think it? Here is Donatello haunted with strange remorse, and an
unmitigable resolve to obtain what he deems justice upon himself. He
fancies, with a kind of direct simplicity, which I have vainly tried to
combat, that, when a wrong has been done, the doer is bound to submit
himself to whatsoever tribunal takes cognizance of such things, and
abide its judgment. I have assured him that there is no such thing
as earthly justice, and especially none here, under the head of
Christendom."

"We will not argue the point again," said Donatello, smiling. "I have no
head for argument, but only a sense, an impulse, an instinct, I believe,
which sometimes leads me right. But why do we talk now of what may make
us sorrowful? There are still two days more. Let us be happy!"

It appeared to Kenyon that since he last saw Donatello, some of the
sweet and delightful characteristics of the antique Faun had returned
to him. There were slight, careless graces, pleasant and simple
peculiarities, that had been obliterated by the heavy grief through
which he was passing at Monte Beni, and out of which he had hardly
emerged when the sculptor parted with Miriam and him beneath the bronze
pontiffs outstretched hand. These happy blossoms had now reappeared. A
playfulness came out of his heart, and glimmered like firelight in
his actions, alternating, or even closely intermingled, with profound
sympathy and serious thought.

"Is he not beautiful?" said Miriam, watching the sculptor's eye as
it dwelt admiringly on Donatello. "So changed, yet still, in a deeper
sense, so much the same! He has travelled in a circle, as all things
heavenly and earthly do, and now comes back to his original self, with
an inestimable treasure of improvement won from an experience of pain.
How wonderful is this! I tremble at my own thoughts, yet must needs
probe them to their depths. Was the crime--in whic