“I well know,” rejoined Kenyon, “that I shall not succeed in uttering the few, deep words which, in this matter, as in all others, include the absolute truth.  But here, Miriam, is one whom a terrible misfortune has begun to educate; it has taken him, and through your agency, out of a wild and happy state, which, within circumscribed limits, gave him joys that he cannot elsewhere find on earth.  On his behalf, you have incurred a responsibility which you cannot fling aside.  And here, Donatello, is one whom Providence marks out as intimately connected with your destiny.  The mysterious process, by which our earthly life instructs us for another state of being, was begun for you by her.  She has rich gifts of heart and mind, a suggestive power, a magnetic influence, a sympathetic knowledge, which, wisely and religiously exercised, are what your condition needs.  She possesses what you require, and, with utter self devotion, will use it for your good.  The bond betwixt you, therefore, is a true one, and never—­except by Heaven’s own act—­should be rent asunder.”

“Ah; he has spoken the truth!” cried Donatello, grasping Miriam’s hand.

“The very truth, dear friend,” cried Miriam.

“But take heed,” resumed the sculptor, anxious not to violate the integrity of his own conscience, “take heed; for you love one another, and yet your bond is twined with such black threads that you must never look upon it as identical with the ties that unite other loving souls.  It is for mutual support; it is for one another’s final good; it is for effort, for sacrifice, but not for earthly happiness.  If such be your motive, believe me, friends, it were better to relinquish each other’s hands at this sad moment.  There would be no holy sanction on your wedded life.”

“None,” said Donatello, shuddering.  “We know it well.”

“None,” repeated Miriam, also shuddering.  “United—­miserably entangled with me, rather—­by a bond of guilt, our union might be for eternity, indeed, and most intimate;—­but, through all that endless duration, I should be conscious of his horror.”

“Not for earthly bliss, therefore,” said Kenyon, “but for mutual elevation, and encouragement towards a severe and painful life, you take each other’s hands.  And if, out of toil, sacrifice, prayer, penitence, and earnest effort towards right things, there comes at length a sombre and thoughtful, happiness, taste it, and thank Heaven!  So that you live not for it,—­so that it be a wayside flower, springing along a path that leads to higher ends,—­it will be Heaven’s gracious gift, and a token that it recognizes your union here below.”

“Have you no more to say?” asked Miriam earnestly.  “There is matter of sorrow and lofty consolation strangely mingled in your words.”

“Only this, dear Miriam,” said the sculptor; “if ever in your lives the highest duty should require from either of you the sacrifice of the other, meet the occasion without shrinking.  This is all.”