The Bronze Pontiff's Benediction

"You are most welcome, Miriam!" said the sculptor, seeking to afford
her the encouragement which he saw she so greatly required. "I have
a hopeful trust that the result of this interview will be propitious.
Come; let me lead you to Donatello."

"No, Kenyon, no!" whispered Miriam, shrinking back; "unless of his own
accord he speaks my name,--unless he bids me stay,--no word shall ever
pass between him and me. It is not that I take upon me to be proud at
this late hour. Among other feminine qualities, I threw away my pride
when Hilda cast me off."

"If not pride, what else restrains you?" Kenyon asked, a little angry at
her unseasonable scruples, and also at this half-complaining reference
to Hilda's just severity. "After daring so much, it is no time for fear!
If we let him part from you without a word, your opportunity of doing
him inestimable good is lost forever."

"True; it will be lost forever!" repeated Miriam sadly. "But, dear
friend, will it be my fault? I willingly fling my woman's pride at his
feet. But--do you not see?--his heart must be left freely to its own
decision whether to recognize me, because on his voluntary choice
depends the whole question whether my devotion will do him good or
harm. Except he feel an infinite need of me, I am a burden and fatal
obstruction to him!"

"Take your own course, then, Miriam," said Kenyon; "and, doubtless,
the crisis being what it is, your spirit is better instructed for its
emergencies than mine."