reature whose face you wear, pray make me
known to your kindred. They will be found hereabouts, if anywhere. Knock
at the rough rind of this ilex-tree, and summon forth the Dryad! Ask the
water-nymph to rise dripping from yonder fountain, and exchange a moist
pressure of the hand with me! Do not fear that I shall shrink; even if
one of your rough cousins, a hairy Satyr, should come capering on his
goat-legs out of the haunts of far antiquity, and propose to dance with
me among these lawns! And will not Bacchus,--with whom you consorted so
familiarly of old, and who loved you so well,--will he not meet us here,
and squeeze rich grapes into his cup for you and me?"

Donatello smiled; he laughed heartily, indeed, in sympathy with the
mirth that gleamed out of Miriam's deep, dark eyes. But he did not seem
quite to understand her mirthful talk, nor to be disposed to explain
what kind of creature he was, or to inquire with what divine or poetic
kindred his companion feigned to link him. He appeared only to know that
Miriam was beautiful, and that she smiled graciously upon him; that
the present moment was very sweet, and himself most happy, with the
sunshine, the sylvan scenery, and woman's kindly charm, which it
enclosed within its small circumference. It was delightful to see the
trust which he reposed in Miriam, and his pure joy in her propinquity;
he asked nothing, sought nothing, save to be near the beloved object,
and brimmed over with ecstasy at that simple boon. A creature of the
happy tribes below us sometimes shows the capacity of this enjoyment; a
man, seldom or never.

"Donatello," said Miriam, looking at him thoughtfully, but amused, yet
not without a shade of sorrow, "you seem very happy; what makes you so?"

"Because I love you!" answered Donatello.

He made this momentous confession as if it were the most natural
thing in the world; and on her part,--such was the contagion of his
simplicity,--Miriam heard it without anger or disturbance, though with
no responding emotion. It was as if they had strayed across the limits
of Arcadia; and come under a civil polity where young men might avow
their passion with as little restraint as a bird pipes its note to a
similar purpose.

"Why should you love me, foolish boy?" said she. "We have no points of
sympathy at all. There are not two creatures more unlike, in this wide
world, than you and I!"

"You are yourself, and I am Donatello," replied he. "Therefore I love