reature away. It distresses me to see that poor man, or any human
being, directing his prayers so much amiss."

"Then, Hilda," answered the sculptor more seriously, "the only Place
in the Pantheon for you and me to kneel is on the pavement beneath
the central aperture. If we pray at a saint's shrine, we shall give
utterance to earthly wishes; but if we pray face to face with the
Deity, we shall feel it impious to petition for aught that is narrow and
selfish. Methinks it is this that makes the Catholics so delight in the
worship of saints; they can bring up all their little worldly wants and
whims, their individualities and human weaknesses, not as things to be
repented of, but to be humored by the canonized humanity to which they
pray. Indeed, it is very tempting!"

What Hilda might have answered must be left to conjecture; for as she
turned from the shrine, her eyes were attracted to the figure of a
female penitent, kneeling on the pavement just beneath the great central
eye, in the very spot which Kenyon had designated as the only one whence
prayers should ascend. The upturned face was invisible, behind a veil or
mask, which formed a part of the garb.

"It cannot be!" whispered Hilda, with emotion. "No; it cannot be!"

"What disturbs you?" asked Kenyon. "Why do you tremble so?"

"If it were possible," she replied, "I should fancy that kneeling figure
to be Miriam!"

"As you say, it is impossible," rejoined the sculptor; "We know too
well what has befallen both her and Donatello." "Yes; it is impossible!"
repeated Hilda. Her voice was still tremulous, however, and she seemed
unable to withdraw her attention from the kneeling figure. Suddenly,
and as if the idea of Miriam had opened the whole volume of Hilda's
reminiscences, she put this question to the sculptor: "Was Donatello
really a Faun?"

"If you had ever studied the pedigree of the far-descended heir of Monte
Beni, as I did," answered Kenyon, with an irrepressible smile, "you
would have retained few doubts on that point. Faun or not, he had a
genial nature, which, had the rest of mankind been in accordance with
it, would have made earth a paradise to our poor friend. It seems
the moral of his story, that human beings of Donatello's character,
compounded especially for happiness, have no longer any business on
earth, or elsewhere. Life has grown so sadly serious, that such men must
change their nature, or else perish, like the antediluvian creatures
that