As she advanced towards the sculptor, the feebleness of her step was so apparent that he made haste to meet her, apprehending that she might sink down on the marble floor, without the instant support of his arm.
But, with a gleam of her natural self-reliance, she declined his aid, and, after touching her cold hand to his, went and sat down on one of the cushioned divans that were ranged against the wall.
"You are very ill, Miriam!" said Kenyon, much shocked at her appearance.
"I had not thought of this." "No; not so ill as I seem to you," she answered; adding despondently, "yet I am ill enough, I believe, to die, unless some change speedily occurs." "What, then, is your disorder ?" asked the sculptor; "and what the remedy ?" "The disorder!" repeated Miriam.

"There is none that I know of save too much life and strength, without a purpose for one or the other.

It is my too redundant energy that is slowly--or perhaps rapidly--wearing me away, because I can apply it to no use.

The object, which I am bound to consider my only one on earth, fails me utterly.

The sacrifice which I yearn to make of myself, my hopes, my everything, is coldly put aside.
Nothing is left for me but to brood, brood, brood, all day, all night, in unprofitable longings and repinings." "This is very sad, Miriam," said Kenyon.
"Ay, indeed; I fancy so," she replied, with a short, unnatural laugh.
"With all your activity of mind," resumed he, "so fertile in plans as I have known you, can you imagine no method of bringing your resources into play ?" "My mind is not active any longer," answered Miriam, in a cold, indifferent tone.