“Of whom do you speak, my son?” inquired the priest.

“Of that sweet girl,” answered Kenyon, “who knelt to you at the confessional.  Surely you remember her, among all the mortals to whose confessions you have listened!  For she alone could have had no sins to reveal.”

“Yes; I remember,” said the priest, with a gleam of recollection in his eyes.  “She was made to bear a miraculous testimony to the efficacy of the divine ordinances of the Church, by seizing forcibly upon one of them, and finding immediate relief from it, heretic though she was.  It is my purpose to publish a brief narrative of this miracle, for the edification of mankind, in Latin, Italian, and English, from the printing press of the Propaganda.  Poor child!  Setting apart her heresy, she was spotless, as you say.  And is she dead?”

“Heaven forbid, father!” exclaimed Kenyon, shrinking back.  “But she has gone from me, I know not whither.  It may be—­yes, the idea seizes upon my mind—­that what she revealed to you will suggest some clew to the mystery of her disappearance.’”

“None, my son, none,” answered the priest, shaking his head; “nevertheless, I bid you be of good cheer.  That young maiden is not doomed to die a heretic.  Who knows what the Blessed Virgin may at this moment be doing for her soul!  Perhaps, when you next behold her, she will be clad in the shining white robe of the true faith.”

This latter suggestion did not convey all the comfort which the old priest possibly intended by it; but he imparted it to the sculptor, along with his blessing, as the two best things that he could bestow, and said nothing further, except to bid him farewell.

When they had parted, however, the idea of Hilda’s conversion to Catholicism recurred to her lover’s mind, bringing with it certain reflections, that gave a new turn to his surmises about the mystery into which she had vanished.  Not that he seriously apprehended—­although the superabundance of her religious sentiment might mislead her for a moment—­that the New England girl would permanently succumb to the scarlet superstitions which surrounded her in Italy.  But the incident of the confessional if known, as probably it was, to the eager propagandists who prowl about for souls, as cats to catch a mouse—­would surely inspire the most confident expectations of bringing her over to the faith.  With so pious an end in view, would Jesuitical morality be shocked at the thought of kidnapping the mortal body, for the sake of the immortal spirit that might otherwise be lost forever?  Would not the kind old priest, himself, deem this to be infinitely the kindest service that he could perform for the stray lamb, who had so strangely sought his aid?

If these suppositions were well founded, Hilda was most likely a prisoner in one of the religious establishments that are so numerous in Rome.  The idea, according to the aspect in which it was viewed, brought now a degree of comfort, and now an additional perplexity.  On the one hand, Hilda was safe from any but spiritual assaults; on the other, where was the possibility of breaking through all those barred portals, and searching a thousand convent cells, to set her free?