"You breathe sweet air, above all the evil scents of Rome; and even so, in your maiden elevation, you dwell above our vanities and passions, our moral dust and mud, with the doves and the angels for your nearest neighbors.

I should not wonder if the Catholics were to make a saint of you, like your namesake of old; especially as you have almost avowed yourself of their religion, by undertaking to keep the lamp alight before the Virgin's shrine." "No, no, Miriam!" said Hilda, who had come joyfully forward to greet her friend.

"You must not call me a Catholic.

A Christian girl--even a daughter of the Puritans--may surely pay honor to the idea of divine Womanhood, without giving up the faith of her forefathers.

But how kind you are to climb into my dove-cote!" "It is no trifling proof of friendship, indeed," answered Miriam; "I should think there were three hundred stairs at least." "But it will do you good," continued Hilda.