Miriam was the dearest friend whom she had ever known.  Being a year or two the elder, of longer acquaintance with Italy, and better fitted to deal with its crafty and selfish inhabitants, she had helped Hilda to arrange her way of life, and had encouraged her through those first weeks, when Rome is so dreary to every newcomer.

“But how lucky that you are at home today,” said Miriam, continuing the conversation which was begun, many pages back.  “I hardly hoped to find you, though I had a favor to ask,—­a commission to put into your charge.  But what picture is this?”

“See!” said Hilda, taking her friend’s hand, and leading her in front of the easel.  “I wanted your opinion of it.”

“If you have really succeeded,” observed Miriam, recognizing the picture at the first glance, “it will be the greatest miracle you have yet achieved.”

The picture represented simply a female head; a very youthful, girlish, perfectly beautiful face, enveloped in white drapery, from beneath which strayed a lock or two of what seemed a rich, though hidden luxuriance of auburn hair.  The eyes were large and brown, and met those of the spectator, but evidently with a strange, ineffectual effort to escape.  There was a little redness about the eyes, very slightly indicated, so that you would question whether or no the girl had been weeping.  The whole face was quiet; there was no distortion or disturbance of any single feature; nor was it easy to see why the expression was not cheerful, or why a single touch of the artist’s pencil should not brighten it into joyousness.  But, in fact, it was the very saddest picture ever painted or conceived; it involved an unfathomable depth of sorrow, the sense of which came to the observer by a sort of intuition.  It was a sorrow that removed this beautiful girl out of the sphere of humanity, and set her in a far-off region, the remoteness of which—­while yet her face is so close before us—­makes us shiver as at a spectre.

“Yes, Hilda,” said her friend, after closely examining the picture, “you have done nothing else so wonderful as this.  But by what unheard-of solicitations or secret interest have you obtained leave to copy Guido’s Beatrice Cenci?  It is an unexampled favor; and the impossibility of getting a genuine copy has filled the Roman picture shops with Beatrices, gay, grievous, or coquettish, but never a true one among them.”

“There has been one exquisite copy, I have heard,” said Hilda, “by an artist capable of appreciating the spirit of the picture.  It was Thompson, who brought it away piecemeal, being forbidden (like the rest of us) to set up his easel before it.  As for me, I knew the Prince Barberini would be deaf to all entreaties; so I had no resource but to sit down before the picture, day after day, and let it sink into my heart.  I do believe it is now photographed there.  It is a sad face to keep so close to one’s heart; only what is so very beautiful can never be quite a pain.  Well; after studying it in this way, I know not how many times, I came home, and have done my best to transfer the image to canvas.”