miriam could not think seriously of the avowal that had passed.he held out his love so freely, in his open palm, that she felt it could be nothing but a toy, which she might play with for an instant, and give back again.and yet donatello's heart was so fresh a fountain, that, had miriam been more world-worn than she was, she might have found it exquisite to slake her thirst with the feelings that welled up and brimmed over from it.she was far, very far, from the dusty mediaeval epoch, when some women have a taste for such refreshment.even for her, however, there was an inexpressible charm in the simplicity that prompted donatello's words and deeds; though, unless she caught them in precisely the true light, they seemed but folly, the offspring of a maimed or imperfectly developed intellect.nately, she almost admired, or wholly scorned him, and knew not which estimate resulted from the deeper appreciation.but it could not, she decided for herself, be other than an innocent pastime, if they two--sure to be separated by their different paths in life, to-morrow--were to gather up some of the little pleasures that chanced to grow about their feet, like the violets and wood- anemones, to-day.
yet an impulse of rectitude impelled miriam to give him what she still held to be a needless warning against an imaginary peril.
"if you were wiser, donatello, you would think me a dangerousperson," said she, "if you follow my footsteps, they will lead you to no good.you ought to be afraid of me.""i would as soon think of fearing the air we breathe," he replied.