feel the blessing upon my spirit."

"It is wonderful," said Kenyon, with a smile, "wonderful and delightful
to think how long a good man's beneficence may be potent, even after his
death. How great, then, must have been the efficacy of this excellent
pontiff's blessing while he was alive!"

"I have heard," remarked the Count, "that there was a brazen image set
up in the wilderness, the sight of which healed the Israelites of their
poisonous and rankling wounds. If it be the Blessed Virgin's pleasure,
why should not this holy image before us do me equal good? A wound has
long been rankling in my soul, and filling it with poison."

"I did wrong to smile," answered Kenyon. "It is not for me to limit
Providence in its operations on man's spirit."

While they stood talking, the clock in the neighboring cathedral told
the hour, with twelve reverberating strokes, which it flung down upon
the crowded market place, as if warning one and all to take advantage
of the bronze pontiff's benediction, or of Heaven's blessing, however
proffered, before the opportunity were lost.

"High noon," said the sculptor. "It is Miriam's hour!"

CHAPTER XXXV

THE BRONZE PONTIFF'S BENEDICTION

When the last of the twelve strokes had fallen from the cathedral clock,
Kenyon threw his eyes over the busy scene of the market place, expecting
to discern Miriam somewhere in the 'crowd. He looked next towards the
cathedral itself, where it was reasonable to imagine that she might have
taken shelter, while awaiting her appointed time. Seeing no trace of
her in either direction, his eyes came back from their quest somewhat
disappointed, and rested on a figure which was leaning, like Donatello
and himself, on the iron balustrade that surrounded the statue. Only a
moment before, they two had been alone.

It was the figure of a woman, with her head bowed on her hands, as if
she deeply felt--what we have been endeavoring to convey into our feeble
description--the benign and awe-inspiring influence which the pontiff's
statue exercises upon a sensitive spectator. No matter though it were
modelled for a Catholic chief priest, the desolate heart, whatever be
its religion, recognizes in that image the likeness of a father.

"Miriam," said the sculptor, with a tremor in his voice, "is it
yourself?"

"It is I," she replied; "I am faithful to my engagement, though with
many fears." She lifted her head, and revealed to Kenyon--revealed to
Donatel