When Miriam and Donatello drew near the church, they found only Kenyon awaiting them on the steps.  Hilda had likewise promised to be of the party, but had not yet appeared.  Meeting the sculptor, Miriam put a force upon herself and succeeded in creating an artificial flow of spirits, which, to any but the nicest observation, was quite as effective as a natural one.  She spoke sympathizingly to the sculptor on the subject of Hilda’s absence, and somewhat annoyed him by alluding in Donatello’s hearing to an attachment which had never been openly avowed, though perhaps plainly enough betrayed.  He fancied that Miriam did not quite recognize the limits of the strictest delicacy; he even went so far as to generalize, and conclude within himself, that this deficiency is a more general failing in woman than in man, the highest refinement being a masculine attribute.

But the idea was unjust to the sex at large, and especially so to this poor Miriam, who was hardly responsible for her frantic efforts to be gay.  Possibly, moreover, the nice action of the mind is set ajar by any violent shock, as of great misfortune or great crime, so that the finer perceptions may be blurred thenceforth, and the effect be traceable in all the minutest conduct of life.

“Did you see anything of the dear child after you left us?” asked Miriam, still keeping Hilda as her topic of conversation.  “I missed her sadly on my way homeward; for nothing insures me such delightful and innocent dreams (I have experienced it twenty times) as a talk late in the evening with Hilda.”

“So I should imagine,” said the sculptor gravely; “but it is an advantage that I have little or no opportunity of enjoying.  I know not what became of Hilda after my parting from you.  She was not especially my companion in any part of our walk.  The last I saw of her she was hastening back to rejoin you in the courtyard of the Palazzo Caffarelli.”

“Impossible!” cried Miriam, starting.

“Then did you not see her again?” inquired Kenyon, in some alarm.

“Not there,” answered Miriam quietly; “indeed, I followed pretty closely on the heels of the rest of the party.  But do not be alarmed on Hilda’s account; the Virgin is bound to watch over the good child, for the sake of the piety with which she keeps the lamp alight at her shrine.  And besides, I have always felt that Hilda is just as safe in these evil streets of Rome as her white doves when they fly downwards from the tower top, and run to and fro among the horses’ feet.  There is certainly a providence on purpose for Hilda, if for no other human creature.”

“I religiously believe it,” rejoined the sculptor; “and yet my mind would be the easier, if I knew that she had returned safely to her tower.”

“Then make yourself quite easy,” answered Miriam.  “I saw her (and it is the last sweet sight that I remember) leaning from her window midway between earth and sky!”