What a pity that he has forever vanished from the hard and dusty paths of life,--unless," added the sculptor, in a sportive whisper, "Donatello be actually he!" "You cannot conceive how this fantasy takes hold of me," responded Miriam, between jest and earnest.

"Imagine, now, a real being, similar to this mythic Faun; how happy, how genial, how satisfactory would be his life, enjoying the warm, sensuous, earthy side of nature; revelling in the merriment of woods and streams; living as our four-footed kindred do,--as mankind did in its innocent childhood; before sin, sorrow or morality itself had ever been thought of! Ah! Kenyon, if Hilda and you and I--if I, at least--had pointed ears! For I suppose the Faun had no conscience, no remorse, no burden on the heart, no troublesome recollections of any sort; no dark future either." "What a tragic tone was that last, Miriam!" said the sculptor; and, looking into her face, he was startled to behold it pale and tear-stained.

"How suddenly this mood has come over you!" "Let it go as it came," said Miriam, "like a thunder-shower in this Roman sky.

All is sunshine again, you see!" Donatello's refractoriness as regarded his ears had evidently cost him something, and he now came close to Miriam's side, gazing at her with an appealing air, as if to solicit forgiveness.

His mute, helpless gesture of entreaty had something pathetic in it, and yet might well enough excite a laugh, so like it was to what you may see in the aspect of a hound when he thinks himself in fault or disgrace.