The Peasant and Contadina

They descended into the excavation: a young peasant, in the short blue
jacket, the small-clothes buttoned at the knee, and buckled shoes, that
compose one of the ugliest dresses ever worn by man, except the wearer's
form have a grace which any garb, or the nudity of an antique statue,
would equally set off; and, hand in hand with him, a village girl, in
one of those brilliant costumes largely kindled up with scarlet, and
decorated with gold embroidery, in which the contadinas array themselves
on feast-days. But Kenyon was not deceived; he had recognized the voices
of his friends, indeed, even before their disguised figures came between
him and the sunlight. Donatello was the peasant; the contadina, with the
airy smile, half mirthful, though it shone out of melancholy eyes,--was
Miriam.

They both greeted the sculptor with a familiar kindness which reminded
him of the days when Hilda and they and he had lived so happily
together, before the mysterious adventure of the catacomb. What a
succession of sinister events had followed one spectral figure out of
that gloomy labyrinth.

"It is carnival time, you know," said Miriam, as if in explanation of
Donatello's and her own costume. "Do you remember how merrily we spent
the Carnival, last year?"

"It seems many years ago," replied Kenyon. "We are all so changed!"

When individuals approach one another with deep purposes on both sides,
they seldom come at once to the matter which they have most at heart.
They dread the electric shock of a too sudden contact with it. A natural
impulse leads them to steal gradually onward, hiding themselves, as it
were, behind a closer, and still a closer topic, until they stand face
to face with the true point of interest. Miriam was conscious of this
impulse, and partially obeyed it.