ively of
Miriam's beauty earlier in our narrative, because we foresaw this
occasion to bring it perhaps more forcibly before the reader.

We know not whether the portrait were a flattered likeness; probably
not, regarding it merely as the delineation of a lovely face; although
Miriam, like all self-painters, may have endowed herself with certain
graces which Other eyes might not discern. Artists are fond of painting
their own portraits; and, in Florence, there is a gallery of hundreds
of them, including the most illustrious, in all of which there are
autobiographical characteristics, so to speak,--traits, expressions,
loftinesses, and amenities, which would have been invisible, had they
not been painted from within. Yet their reality and truth are none
the less. Miriam, in like manner, had doubtless conveyed some of the
intimate results of her heart knowledge into her own portrait, and
perhaps wished to try whether they would be perceptible to so simple and
natural an observer as Donatello.

"Does the expression please you?" she asked.

"Yes," said Donatello hesitatingly; "if it would only smile so like the
sunshine as you sometimes do. No, it is sadder than I thought at first.
Cannot you make yourself smile a little, signorina?"

"A forced smile is uglier than a frown," said Miriam, a bright, natural
smile breaking out over her face even as she spoke.

"O, catch it now!" cried Donatello, clapping his hands. "Let it shine
upon the picture! There! it has vanished already! And you are sad again,
very sad; and the picture gazes sadly forth at me, as if some evil had
befallen it in the little time since I looked last."

"How perplexed you seem, my friend!" answered Miriam. "I really half
believe you are a Faun, there is such a mystery and terror for you in
these dark moods, which are just as natural as daylight to us people of
ordinary mould. I advise you, at all events, to look at other faces with
those innocent and happy eyes, and never more to gaze at mine!"

"You speak in vain," replied the young man, with a deeper emphasis than
she had ever before heard in his voice; "shroud yourself in what gloom
you will, I must needs follow you."

"Well, well, well," said Miriam impatiently; "but leave me now; for to
speak plainly, my good friend, you grow a little wearisome. I walk
this afternoon in the Borghese grounds. Meet me there, if it suits your
pleasure."

CHAPTER VI

THE VIRGIN'S SHRINE

After Donat