After Hilda had bidden the priest farewell, she came slowly towards the high altar.  The individual to whom we have alluded seemed irresolute whether to advance or retire.  His hesitation lasted so long that the maiden, straying through a happy reverie, had crossed the wide extent of the pavement between the confessional and the altar, before he had decided whether to meet her.  At last, when within a pace or two, she raised her eyes and recognized Kenyon.

“It is you!” she exclaimed, with joyful surprise.  “I am so happy.”

In truth, the sculptor had never before seen, nor hardly imagined, such a figure of peaceful beatitude as Hilda now presented.  While coming towards him in the solemn radiance which, at that period of the day, is diffused through the transept, and showered down beneath the dome, she seemed of the same substance as the atmosphere that enveloped her.  He could scarcely tell whether she was imbued with sunshine, or whether it was a glow of happiness that shone out of her.

At all events, it was a marvellous change from the sad girl, who had entered the confessional bewildered with anguish, to this bright, yet softened image of religious consolation that emerged from it.  It was as if one of the throng of angelic people, who might be hovering in the sunny depths of the dome, had alighted on the pavement.  Indeed, this capability of transfiguration, which we often see wrought by inward delight on persons far less capable of it than Hilda, suggests how angels come by their beauty, it grows out of their happiness, and lasts forever only because that is immortal.

She held out her hand, and Kenyon was glad to take it in his own, if only to assure himself that she was made of earthly material.

“Yes, Hilda, I see that you are very happy,” he replied gloomily, and withdrawing his hand after a single pressure.  “For me, I never was less so than at this moment.”

“Has any misfortune befallen you?” asked Hilda with earnestness.  “Pray tell me, and you shall have my sympathy, though I must still be very happy.  Now I know how it is that the saints above are touched by the sorrows of distressed people on earth, and yet are never made wretched by them.  Not that I profess to be a saint, you know,” she added, smiling radiantly.  “But the heart grows so large, and so rich, and so variously endowed, when it has a great sense of bliss, that it can give smiles to some, and tears to others, with equal sincerity, and enjoy its own peace throughout all.”

“Do not say you are no saint!” answered Kenyon with a smile, though he felt that the tears stood in his eves.  “You will still be Saint Hilda, whatever church may canonize you.”

“Ah! you would not have said so, had you seen me but an hour ago!” murmured she.  “I was so wretched, that there seemed a grievous sin in it.”

“And what has made you so suddenly happy?” inquired the sculptor.  “But first, Hilda, will you not tell me why you were so wretched?”