Hilda and a Friend

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?"