f
accuracy and order. The packet is of some slight importance; and yet, it
may be, I shall not ask you for it again. In a week or two, you know,
I am leaving Rome. You, setting at defiance the malarial fever, mean to
stay here and haunt your beloved galleries through the summer. Now, four
months hence, unless you hear more from me, I would have you deliver the
packet according to its address."

Hilda read the direction; it was to Signore Luca Barboni, at the Plazzo
Cenci, third piano.

"I will deliver it with my own hand," said she, "precisely four months
from to-day, unless you bid me to the contrary. Perhaps I shall meet the
ghost of Beatrice in that grim old palace of her forefathers."

"In that case," rejoined Miriam, "do not fail to speak to her, and
try to win her confidence. Poor thing! she would be all the better for
pouring her heart out freely, and would be glad to do it, if she were
sure of sympathy. It irks my brain and heart to think of her, all shut
up within herself." She withdrew the cloth that Hilda had drawn over the
picture, and took another long look at it. "Poor sister Beatrice! for
she was still a woman, Hilda, still a sister, be her sin or sorrow what
they might. How well you have done it, Hilda! I knot not whether Guido
will thank you, or be jealous of your rivalship."

"Jealous, indeed!" exclaimed Hilda. "If Guido had not wrought through
me, my pains would have been thrown away."

"After all," resumed Miriam, "if a woman had painted the original
picture, there might have been something in it which we miss now. I
have a great mind to undertake a copy myself; and try to give it what
it lacks. Well; goodby. But, stay! I am going for a little airing to
the grounds of the Villa Borghese this afternoon. You will think it very
foolish, but I always feel the safer in your company, Hilda, slender
little maiden as you are. Will you come?"

"Ah, not to-day, dearest Miriam," she replied; "I have set my heart on
giving another touch or two to this picture, and shall not stir abroad
till nearly sunset."

"Farewell, then," said her visitor. "I leave you in your dove-cote. What
a sweet, strange life you lead here; conversing with the souls of the
old masters, feeding and fondling your sister doves, and trimming the
Virgin's lamp! Hilda, do you ever pray to the Virgin while you tend her
shrine?"

"Sometimes I have been moved to do so," replied the Dove, blushing,
and lowering her eyes; "she was a woman