But he could only look
at her.

And presently her eyes came back to his. They looked in each other's
faces long, but did not speak.

Then slowly, slowly and bitterly they drew their eyes away and set
their unwilling faces toward the north; and lingering, step by step,
they came side by side along the sands again, parted, and went their
allotted, divided ways.

THE IMAGE OF SAN DONATO.

BY VIRGINIA W. JOHNSON.

_Harper's Magazine, January, 1879._

I.

"Buy the respect of the insolent."--_Turkish Proverb._

Down in the old Trastevere quarter of Rome the festa of St. Cecilia
was being celebrated in her church and convent.

The day was in harmony with the memory of the noble Roman lady--a sky
serenely blue, sunshine on fountain and temple ruin, the atmosphere
golden with autumn's richness of coloring. The adjacent narrow streets
were deserted, swept by one of those waves of popular impulse so
characteristic of Italian cities; files of priestly students from the
colleges passed through the gateway, this band clad in black, that one
in scarlet or purple, and formed lines of wavering color in their
transition across the court to the shadowy portico, flanked by the
high, grim, convent wall--that modern reading of St. Cecilia's
martyrdom. High above the surging crowd of devotees and beggars the
campanile soared into the sunny air, outlined against that azure Roman
sky, and sent forth its tinkling peal of summons to vespers, like the
silvery intonation of a benediction.

Two strangers entered the gate, the elder sombre and quiet, the
younger eager and delighted by the spectacle. Their respective
positions were apparent at a glance. Mademoiselle Durand, in her neat
black dress, with her thin sallow face and repressed expression, was a
French governess; the young American girl beside her, richly attired
in blue velvet, was her charge.

"I am a Cecilia, although far from a saint," said the latter, gayly.
"Ah! how one loves to hear about her--the beautiful martyr of
Raphael's pictures! Do you believe she is now singing among the
heavenly choirs up there, mademoiselle?" She paused a moment to
gaze at the sky, the sun-bathed campanile, with a wistfulness
not unfamiliar to her companion, and which she attributed to an
imaginative childhood. "Perhaps the evening bells of Rome are the
echoes of her voice in another world," she added, musingly.

"Come," said mademoiselle, dryly.

"W