of gesticulation, but which doubtless was the language of the natural man, though laid aside and forgotten by other men, now that words have been feebly substituted in the place of signs and symbols.  He gave Miriam the idea of a being not precisely man, nor yet a child, but, in a high and beautiful sense, an animal, a creature in a state of development less than what mankind has attained, yet the more perfect within itself for that very deficiency.  This idea filled her mobile imagination with agreeable fantasies, which, after smiling at them herself, she tried to convey to the young man.

“What are you, my friend?” she exclaimed, always keeping in mind his singular resemblance to the Faun of the Capitol.  “If you are, in good truth, that wild and pleasant creature whose face you wear, pray make me known to your kindred.  They will be found hereabouts, if anywhere.  Knock at the rough rind of this ilex-tree, and summon forth the Dryad!  Ask the water-nymph to rise dripping from yonder fountain, and exchange a moist pressure of the hand with me!  Do not fear that I shall shrink; even if one of your rough cousins, a hairy Satyr, should come capering on his goat-legs out of the haunts of far antiquity, and propose to dance with me among these lawns!  And will not Bacchus,—­with whom you consorted so familiarly of old, and who loved you so well,—­will he not meet us here, and squeeze rich grapes into his cup for you and me?”

Donatello smiled; he laughed heartily, indeed, in sympathy with the mirth that gleamed out of Miriam’s deep, dark eyes.  But he did not seem quite to understand her mirthful talk, nor to be disposed to explain what kind of creature he was, or to inquire with what divine or poetic kindred his companion feigned to link him.  He appeared only to know that Miriam was beautiful, and that she smiled graciously upon him; that the present moment was very sweet, and himself most happy, with the sunshine, the sylvan scenery, and woman’s kindly charm, which it enclosed within its small circumference.  It was delightful to see the trust which he reposed in Miriam, and his pure joy in her propinquity; he asked nothing, sought nothing, save to be near the beloved object, and brimmed over with ecstasy at that simple boon.  A creature of the happy tribes below us sometimes shows the capacity of this enjoyment; a man, seldom or never.

“Donatello,” said Miriam, looking at him thoughtfully, but amused, yet not without a shade of sorrow, “you seem very happy; what makes you so?”

“Because I love you!” answered Donatello.

He made this momentous confession as if it were the most natural thing in the world; and on her part,—­such was the contagion of his simplicity,—­Miriam heard it without anger or disturbance, though with no responding emotion.  It was as if they had strayed across the limits of Arcadia; and come under a civil polity where young men might avow their passion with as little restraint as a bird pipes its note to a similar purpose.