What Hilda might have answered must be left to conjecture; for as she turned from the shrine, her eyes were attracted to the figure of a female penitent, kneeling on the pavement just beneath the great central eye, in the very spot which Kenyon had designated as the only one whence prayers should ascend.  The upturned face was invisible, behind a veil or mask, which formed a part of the garb.

“It cannot be!” whispered Hilda, with emotion.  “No; it cannot be!”

“What disturbs you?” asked Kenyon.  “Why do you tremble so?”

“If it were possible,” she replied, “I should fancy that kneeling figure to be Miriam!”

“As you say, it is impossible,” rejoined the sculptor; “We know too well what has befallen both her and Donatello.”  “Yes; it is impossible!” repeated Hilda.  Her voice was still tremulous, however, and she seemed unable to withdraw her attention from the kneeling figure.  Suddenly, and as if the idea of Miriam had opened the whole volume of Hilda’s reminiscences, she put this question to the sculptor:  “Was Donatello really a Faun?”

“If you had ever studied the pedigree of the far-descended heir of Monte Beni, as I did,” answered Kenyon, with an irrepressible smile, “you would have retained few doubts on that point.  Faun or not, he had a genial nature, which, had the rest of mankind been in accordance with it, would have made earth a paradise to our poor friend.  It seems the moral of his story, that human beings of Donatello’s character, compounded especially for happiness, have no longer any business on earth, or elsewhere.  Life has grown so sadly serious, that such men must change their nature, or else perish, like the antediluvian creatures that required, as the condition of their existence, a more summer-like atmosphere than ours.”

“I will not accept your moral!” replied the hopeful and happy-natured Hilda.

“Then here is another; take your choice!” said the sculptor, remembering what Miriam had recently suggested, in reference to the same point.  “He perpetrated a great crime; and his remorse, gnawing into his soul, has awakened it; developing a thousand high capabilities, moral and intellectual, which we never should have dreamed of asking for, within the scanty compass of the Donatello whom we knew.”

“I know not whether this is so,” said Hilda.  “But what then?”

“Here comes my perplexity,” continued Kenyon.  “Sin has educated Donatello, and elevated him.  Is sin, then,—­which we deem such a dreadful blackness in the universe,—­is it, like sorrow, merely an element of human education, through which we struggle to a higher and purer state than we could otherwise have attained?  Did Adam fall, that we might ultimately rise to a far loftier paradise than his?” “O hush!” cried Hilda, shrinking from him with an expression of horror which wounded the poor, speculative sculptor to the soul.  “This is terrible; and I could weep for you, if you indeed believe it.  Do not you perceive what a mockery your creed makes, not only of all religious sentiments, but of moral law?  And how it annuls and obliterates whatever precepts of Heaven are written deepest within us?  You have shocked me beyond words!”