"I see Miriam, who has just bathed her hands in that delightfully cool water.

I often dip my fingers into a Roman fountain, and think of the brook that used to be one of my playmates in my New England village." "I fancied I saw something else," said Kenyon; "but it was doubtless a mistake." But, allowing that he had caught a true glimpse into the hidden significance of Miriam's gesture, what a terrible thraldom did it suggest! Free as she seemed to be,--beggar as he looked,--the nameless vagrant must then be dragging the beautiful Miriam through the streets of Rome, fettered and shackled more cruelly than any captive queen of yore following in an emperor's triumph.

And was it conceivable that she would have been thus enthralled unless some great error--how great Kenyon dared not think--or some fatal weakness had given this dark adversary a vantage ground?
"Hilda," said he abruptly, "who and what is Miriam?
Pardon me; but are you sure of her ?" "Sure of her!" repeated Hilda, with an angry blush, for her friend's sake.

"I am sure that she is kind, good, and generous; a true and faithful friend, whom I love dearly, and who loves me as well! What more than this need I be sure of ?" "And your delicate instincts say all this in her favor ?--nothing against her ?" continued the sculptor, without heeding the irritation of Hilda's tone.

"These are my own impressions, too.