THE BRONZE PONTIFF'S BENEDICTION When the last of the twelve strokes had fallen from the cathedral clock, Kenyon threw his eyes over the busy scene of the market place, expecting to discern Miriam somewhere in the 'crowd.

He looked next towards the cathedral itself, where it was reasonable to imagine that she might have taken shelter, while awaiting her appointed time.

Seeing no trace of her in either direction, his eyes came back from their quest somewhat disappointed, and rested on a figure which was leaning, like Donatello and himself, on the iron balustrade that surrounded the statue.

Only a moment before, they two had been alone.
It was the figure of a woman, with her head bowed on her hands, as if she deeply felt--what we have been endeavoring to convey into our feeble description--the benign and awe-inspiring influence which the pontiff's statue exercises upon a sensitive spectator.

No matter though it were modelled for a Catholic chief priest, the desolate heart, whatever be its religion, recognizes in that image the likeness of a father.
"Miriam," said the sculptor, with a tremor in his voice, "is it yourself ?" "It is I," she replied; "I am faithful to my engagement, though with many fears." She lifted her head, and revealed to Kenyon--revealed to Donatello likewise--the well-remembered features of Miriam.