individually be.

There was one observable point, indeed, betokening that the artist
relinquished, for her personal self, the happiness which she could so
profoundly appreciate for others. In all those sketches of common life,
and the affections that spiritualize it, a figure was portrayed apart,
now it peeped between the branches of a shrubbery, amid which two lovers
sat; now it was looking through a frosted window, from the outside,
while a young wedded pair sat at their new fireside within; and once it
leaned from a chariot, which six horses were whirling onward in pomp
and pride, and gazed at a scene of humble enjoyment by a cottage door.
Always it was the same figure, and always depicted with an expression of
deep sadness; and in every instance, slightly as they were brought out,
the face and form had the traits of Miriam's own.

"Do you like these sketches better, Donatello?" asked Miriam. "Yes,"
said Donatello rather doubtfully. "Not much, I fear," responded she,
laughing. "And what should a boy like you--a Faun too,--know about the
joys and sorrows, the intertwining light and shadow, of human life? I
forgot that you were a Faun. You cannot suffer deeply; therefore you
can but half enjoy. Here, now, is a subject which you can better
appreciate."

The sketch represented merely a rustic dance, but with such extravagance
of fun as was delightful to behold; and here there was no drawback,
except that strange sigh and sadness which always come when we are
merriest.

"I am going to paint the picture in oils," said the artist; "and I want
you, Donatello, for the wildest dancer of them all. Will you sit for me,