“My mind is not active any longer,” answered Miriam, in a cold, indifferent tone.  “It deals with one thought and no more.  One recollection paralyzes it.  It is not remorse; do not think it!  I put myself out of the question, and feel neither regret nor penitence on my own behalf.  But what benumbs me, what robs me of all power,-it is no secret for a woman to tell a man, yet I care not though you know it, —­is the certainty that I am, and must ever be, an object of horror in Donatello’s sight.”

The sculptor—­a young man, and cherishing a love which insulated him from the wild experiences which some men gather—­was startled to perceive how Miriam’s rich, ill-regulated nature impelled her to fling herself, conscience and all, on one passion, the object of which intellectually seemed far beneath her.

“How have you obtained the certainty of which you speak?” asked he, after a pause.

“O, by a sure token,” said Miriam; “a gesture, merely; a shudder, a cold shiver, that ran through him one sunny morning when his hand happened to touch mine!  But it was enough.”

“I firmly believe, Miriam,” said the sculptor, “that he loves you still.”

She started, and a flush of color came tremulously over the paleness of her cheek.

“Yes,” repeated Kenyon, “if my interest in Donatello—­and in yourself, Miriam—­endows me with any true insight, he not only loves you still, but with a force and depth proportioned to the stronger grasp of his faculties, in their new development.”

“Do not deceive me,” said Miriam, growing pale again.

“Not for the world!” replied Kenyon.  “Here is what I take to be the truth.  There was an interval, no doubt, when the horror of some calamity, which I need not shape out in my conjectures, threw Donatello into a stupor of misery.  Connected with the first shock there was an intolerable pain and shuddering repugnance attaching themselves to all the circumstances and surroundings of the event that so terribly affected him.  Was his dearest friend involved within the horror of that moment?  He would shrink from her as he shrank most of all from himself.  But as his mind roused itself,—­as it rose to a higher life than he had hitherto experienced,—­whatever had been true and permanent within him revived by the selfsame impulse.  So has it been with his love.”

“But, surely,” said Miriam, “he knows that I am here!  Why, then, except that I am odious to him, does he not bid me welcome?”

“He is, I believe, aware of your presence here,” answered the sculptor.  “Your song, a night or two ago, must have revealed it to him, and, in truth, I had fancied that there was already a consciousness of it in his mind.  But, the more passionately he longs for your society, the more religiously he deems himself bound to avoid it.  The idea of a lifelong penance has taken strong possession of Donatello.  He gropes blindly about him for some method of sharp self-torture, and finds, of course, no other so efficacious as this.”