her frantic efforts to be
gay. Possibly, moreover, the nice action of the mind is set ajar by any
violent shock, as of great misfortune or great crime, so that the finer
perceptions may be blurred thenceforth, and the effect be traceable in
all the minutest conduct of life.

"Did you see anything of the dear child after you left us?" asked
Miriam, still keeping Hilda as her topic of conversation. "I missed her
sadly on my way homeward; for nothing insures me such delightful and
innocent dreams (I have experienced it twenty times) as a talk late in
the evening with Hilda."

"So I should imagine," said the sculptor gravely; "but it is an
advantage that I have little or no opportunity of enjoying. I know not
what became of Hilda after my parting from you. She was not especially
my companion in any part of our walk. The last I saw of her she
was hastening back to rejoin you in the courtyard of the Palazzo
Caffarelli."

"Impossible!" cried Miriam, starting.

"Then did you not see her again?" inquired Kenyon, in some alarm.

"Not there," answered Miriam quietly; "indeed, I followed pretty closely
on the heels of the rest of the party. But do not be alarmed on Hilda's
account; the Virgin is bound to watch over the good child, for the sake
of the piety with which she keeps the lamp alight at her shrine. And
besides, I have always felt that Hilda is just as safe in these evil
streets of Rome as her white doves when they fly downwards from the
tower top, and run to and fro among the horses' feet. There is certainly
a providence on purpose for Hilda, if for no other human creature."

"I religiously believe it," rejoined the sculptor; "and yet my mind
would be the easier, if I knew that she had returned safely to her
tower."

"Then make yourself quite easy," answered Miriam. "I saw her (and it
is the last sweet sight that I remember) leaning from her window midway
between earth and sky!"

Kenyon now looked at Donatello.

"You seem out of spirits, my dear friend," he observed. "This languid
Roman atmosphere is not the airy wine that you were accustomed to
breathe at home. I have not forgotten your hospitable invitation to
meet you this summer at your castle among the Apennines. It is my fixed
purpose to come, I assure you. We shall both be the better for some deep
draughts of the mountain breezes."

"It may he," said Donatello, with unwonted sombreness; "the old house
seemed joyous when I was a child. But as I remember