All of us, after a long abode in cities, have felt the blood gush more
joyously through our veins with the first breath of rural air; few could
feel it so much as Donatello, a creature of simple elements, bred in
the sweet sylvan life of Tuscany, and for months back dwelling amid the
mouldy gloom and dim splendor of old Rome. Nature has been shut out for
numberless centuries from those stony-hearted streets, to which he had
latterly grown accustomed; there is no trace of her, except for what
blades of grass spring out of the pavements of the less trodden piazzas,
or what weeds cluster and tuft themselves on the cornices of ruins.
Therefore his joy was like that of a child that had gone astray from
home, and finds him suddenly in his mother's arms again.

At last, deeming it full time for Miriam to keep her tryst, he climbed
to the tiptop of the tallest tree, and thence looked about him, swaying
to and fro in the gentle breeze, which was like the respiration of that
great leafy, living thing. Donatello saw beneath him the whole circuit
of the enchanted ground; the statues and columns pointing upward from
among the shrubbery, the fountains flashing in the sunlight, the paths
winding hither and thither, and continually finding out some nook of new
and ancient pleasantness. He saw the villa, too, with its marble front
incrusted all over with basreliefs, and statues in its many niches. It
was as beautiful as a fairy palace, and seemed an abode in which the
lord and lady of this fair domain might fitly dwell, and come forth each
morning to enjoy as sweet a life as their happiest dreams of the past
night could have depicted. All this he saw, but his first glance had
taken in too wide a sweep, and it was not till his eyes fell almost
directly beneath him, that Donatello beheld Miriam just turning into the
path that led across the roots of his very tree.

He descended among the foliage, waiting for her to come close to the