hem united with
the small, familiar, gentle interests of life, the continually operating
influences of which do so much for the health of the character, and
carry off what would otherwise be a dangerous accumulation of morbid
sensibility. A vast deal of human sympathy runs along this electric
line, stretching from the throne to the wicker chair of the humblest
seamstress, and keeping high and low in a species of communion with
their kindred beings. Methinks it is a token of healthy and gentle
characteristics, when women of high thoughts and accomplishments love
to sew; especially as they are never more at home with their own hearts
than while so occupied.

And when the work falls in a woman's lap, of its own accord, and the
needle involuntarily ceases to fly, it is a sign of trouble, quite as
trustworthy as the throb of the heart itself. This was what happened
to Miriam. Even while Donatello stood gazing at her, she seemed to have
forgotten his presence, allowing him to drop out of her thoughts, and
the torn glove to fall from her idle fingers. Simple as he was, the
young man knew by his sympathies that something was amiss.

"Dear lady, you are sad," said he, drawing close to her.

"It is nothing, Donatello," she replied, resuming her work; "yes;
a little sad, perhaps; but that is not strange for us people of the
ordinary world, especially for women. You are of a cheerfuller race, my
friend, and know nothing of this disease of sadness. But why do you come
into this shadowy room of mine?"

"Why do you make it so shadowy?" asked he.

"We artists purposely exclude sunshine, and all but a partial light,"
said Miriam, "because we think it necessary to put ourselves at
odds with Nature before trying to imitate her. That strikes you very
strangely, does it not? But we make very pretty pictures sometimes with
our artfully arranged lights and shadows. Amuse yourself with some
of mine, Donatello, and by and by I shall be in the mood to begin the
portrait we were talking about."

The room had the customary aspect of a painter's studio; one of those
delightful spots that hardly seem to belong to the actual world, but
rather to be the outward type of a poet's haunted imagination, where
there are glimpses, sketches, and half-developed hints of beings and
objects grander and more beautiful than we can anywhere find in reality.
The windows were closed with shutters, or deeply curtained, except one,
which was partly open to a sun