She looked up and smiled through tears. He held her hands fast, she stepped upon the low rock and stood upon his level. "Why should we mourn?" she cried. "Have we not the best things?" Her eyes turned from him and looked out across the sea. And her thoughts went on beyond sea, and land, and sun. 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. "When I am grown up perhaps I will build a convent of St. Cecilia in America with my own money," continued the girl, meditatively. Mademoiselle's eyes sparkled; she caressed the hand within her arm. "Chere enfant! But I forget; it is not your faith."