“Come in, wild Faun,” she said, “and tell me the latest news from Arcady!”

The artist was not just then at her easel, but was busied with the feminine task of mending a pair of gloves.

There is something extremely pleasant, and even touching,—­at least, of very sweet, soft, and winning effect,—­in this peculiarity of needlework, distinguishing women from men.  Our own sex is incapable of any such by-play aside from the main business of life; but women—­be they of what earthly rank they may, however gifted with intellect or genius, or endowed with awful beauty—­have always some little handiwork ready to fill the tiny gap of every vacant moment.  A needle is familiar to the fingers of them all.  A queen, no doubt, plies it on occasion; the woman poet can use it as adroitly as her pen; the woman’s eye, that has discovered a new star, turns from its glory to send the polished little instrument gleaming along the hem of her kerchief, or to darn a casual fray in her dress.  And they have greatly the advantage of us in this respect.  The slender thread of silk or cotton keeps them united with the small, familiar, gentle interests of life, the continually operating influences of which do so much for the health of the character, and carry off what would otherwise be a dangerous accumulation of morbid sensibility.  A vast deal of human sympathy runs along this electric line, stretching from the throne to the wicker chair of the humblest seamstress, and keeping high and low in a species of communion with their kindred beings.  Methinks it is a token of healthy and gentle characteristics, when women of high thoughts and accomplishments love to sew; especially as they are never more at home with their own hearts than while so occupied.

And when the work falls in a woman’s lap, of its own accord, and the needle involuntarily ceases to fly, it is a sign of trouble, quite as trustworthy as the throb of the heart itself.  This was what happened to Miriam.  Even while Donatello stood gazing at her, she seemed to have forgotten his presence, allowing him to drop out of her thoughts, and the torn glove to fall from her idle fingers.  Simple as he was, the young man knew by his sympathies that something was amiss.

“Dear lady, you are sad,” said he, drawing close to her.

“It is nothing, Donatello,” she replied, resuming her work; “yes; a little sad, perhaps; but that is not strange for us people of the ordinary world, especially for women.  You are of a cheerfuller race, my friend, and know nothing of this disease of sadness.  But why do you come into this shadowy room of mine?”

“Why do you make it so shadowy?” asked he.

“We artists purposely exclude sunshine, and all but a partial light,” said Miriam, “because we think it necessary to put ourselves at odds with Nature before trying to imitate her.  That strikes you very strangely, does it not?  But we make very pretty pictures sometimes with our artfully arranged lights and shadows.  Amuse yourself with some of mine, Donatello, and by and by I shall be in the mood to begin the portrait we were talking about.”