After the second week, however, they began to take flight, and dropping off by pairs, betook themselves to other dove-cotes.

Only a single dove remained, and brooded drearily beneath the shrine.

The flock that had departed were like the many hopes that had vanished from Kenyon's heart; the one that still lingered, and looked so wretched,--was it a Hope, or already a Despair?
In the street, one day, the sculptor met a priest of mild and venerable aspect; and as his mind dwelt continually upon Hilda, and was especially active in bringing up all incidents that had ever been connected with her, it immediately struck him that this was the very father with whom he had seen her at the confessional.

Such trust did Hilda inspire in him, that Kenyon had never asked what was the subject of the communication between herself and this old priest.

He had no reason for imagining that it could have any relation with her disappearance, so long subsequently; but, being thus brought face to face with a personage, mysteriously associated, as he now remembered, with her whom he had lost, an impulse ran before his thoughts and led the sculptor to address him.
It might be that the reverend kindliness of the old man's expression took Kenyon's heart by surprise; at all events, he spoke as if there were a recognized acquaintanceship, and an object of mutual interest between them.
"She has gone from me, father," said he.
"Of whom do you speak, my son ?" inquired the priest.
"Of that sweet girl," answered Kenyon, "who knelt to you at the confessional.