Psyche's Art

by Louisa May Alcott

"Handsome is that handsome does."IOnce upon a time there raged in a certain city one of thosefashionable epidemics which occasionally attack our youthfulpopulation. It wasn't the music mania, nor gymnastic convulsions, northat wide-spread malady, croquet. Neither was it one of the new danceswhich, like a tarantula-bite, set every one a twirling, nor stagemadness, nor yet that American lecturing influenza which yearly sweepsover the land. No, it was a new disease called the Art fever, and itattacked the young women of the community with great violence.Nothing but time could cure it, and it ran its course to the dismay,amusement, or edification of the beholders, for its victims did allmanner of queer things in their delirium. They begged potteriesfor clay, drove Italian plaster-corkers out of their wits withunexecutable orders got neuralgia and rheumatism sketching perched onfences and trees like artistic hens, and caused a rise in the price ofbread, paper, and charcoal, by their ardor in crayoning. They coveredcanvas with the expedition of scene-painters, had classes, lectures,receptions, and exhibitions, made models of each other, and renderedtheir walls hideous with bad likenesses of all their friends. Theirconversation ceased to be intelligible to the uninitiated, and theyprattled prettily of "chiaro oscuro, French sauce, refraction of theangle of the eye, seventh spinus process, depth and juiciness ofcolor, tender touch, and a good tone." Even in dress the artisticdisorder was visible; some cast aside crinoline altogether, andstalked about with a severe simplicity of outline worthy of Flaxman.Others flushed themselves with scarlet, that no landscape which theyadorned should be without some touch of Turner's favorite tint. Somewere blue in every sense of the word, and the heads of all wereadorned with classic braids, curls tied Hebe-wise, or hair dressed ala hurricane.It was found impossible to keep them safe at home, and, as the fevergrew, these harmless maniacs invaded the sacred retreats where artistsof the other sex did congregate, startling those anchorites withvisions of large-eyed damsels bearing portfolios in hands delicatelybegrimed with crayon, chalk, and clay, gliding through the corridorshitherto haunted only by shabby paletots, shadowy hats, and cigarsmoke. This irruption was borne with manly fortitude, not to saycheerfulness, for studio doors stood hospitably open as the fairinvaders passed, and studies from life were generously offered them inglimpses of picturesque gentlemen posed before easels, brooding overmaster-pieces in "a divine despair," or attitudinizing upon couches asif exhausted by the soarings of genius.An atmosphere of romance began to pervade the old buildings when thegirls came, and nature and art took turns. There were peepings andwhisperings, much stifled laughter and whisking in and out; not tomention the accidental rencontres, small services, and eye telegrams,which somewhat lightened the severe studies of all parties.Half a dozen young victims of this malady met daily in one of thecells of a great art beehive called "Raphael's Rooms," and devotedtheir shining hours to modelling fancy heads, gossiping the while; forthe poor things found the road to fame rather dull and dusty withoutsuch verbal sprinklings."Psyche Dean, you've had an adventure! I see it in your face; so tellit at once, for we are stupid as owls here to-day," cried one of thesisterhood, as a bright-eyed girl entered with some precipitation."I dropped my portfolio, and a man picked it up, that's all." repliedPsyche, hurrying on her gray linen pinafore."That won't do; I know something interesting happened, for you've beenblushing, and you look brisker than usual this morning," said thefirst speaker, polishing off the massive nose of her Homer."It wasn't anything," began Psyche a little reluctantly. "I was comingup in a hurry when I ran against a man coming down in a hurry. Myportfolio slipped, and my papers went flying all about the landing. Ofcourse we both laughed and begged pardon, and I began to pick themup, but he wouldn't let me; so I held the book while he collected thesketches. I saw him glance at them as he did so, and that made meblush, for they are wretched things, you know.""Not a bit of it; they are capital, and you are a regular genius, aswe all agree," cut in the Homeric Miss Cutter."Never tell people they are geniuses unless you wish to spoil them,"returned Psyche severely. "Well, when the portfolio was put to rightsI was going on, but he fell to picking up a little bunch of violetsI had dropped; you know I always wear a posy into town to give meinspiration. I didn't care for the dusty flowers, and told him so, andhurried away before any one came. At the top of the stairs I peepedover the railing, and there he was, gathering up every one of thosehalf-dead violets as carefully as if they had been tea-roses.""Psyche Dean, you have met your fate this day!" exclaimed a thirddamsel, with straw-colored tresses, and a good deal of weedy shrubberyin her hat, which gave an Ophelia-like expression to her sentimentalcountenance.Psyche frowned and shook her head, as if half sorry she had told herlittle story."Was he handsome?" asked Miss Larkins, the believer in fate."I didn't particularly observe.""It was the red-headed man, whom we call Titian: he's always on thestairs.""No, it wasn't; his hair was brown and curly," cried Psyche,innocently falling into the trap."Like Peerybingle's baby when its cap was taken off," quoted MissDickenson, who pined to drop the last two letters of her name."Was it Murillo, the black-eyed one?" asked the fair Cutter, for thegirls had a name for all the attitudinizers and promenaders whom theyoftenest met."No, he had gray eyes, and very fine ones they were too," answeredPsyche, adding, as if to herself, "he looked as I imagine MichaelAngelo might have looked when young.""Had he a broken nose, like the great Mike?" asked an irreverentdamsel."If he had, no one would mind it, for his head is splendid; he tookhis hat off, so I had a fine view. He isn't handsome, but he'll dosomething," said Psyche, prophetically, as she recalled the strong,ambitious face which she had often observed, but never mentionedbefore."Well, dear, considering that you didn't 'particularly look' at theman, you've given us a very good idea of his appearance. We'll callhim Michael Angelo, and he shall be your idol. I prefer stout oldRembrandt myself, and Larkie adores that dandified Raphael," said thelively Cutter, slapping away at Homer's bald pate energetically, asshe spoke."Raphael is a dear, but Rubens is more to my taste now," returned MissLarkins. "He was in the hall yesterday talking with Sir Joshua, whohad his inevitable umbrella, like a true Englishman. Just as I cameup, the umbrella fell right before me. I started back; Sir Joshualaughed, but Rubens said, 'Deuce take it!' and caught up the umbrella,giving me a never-to-be-forgotten look. It was perfectly thrilling.""Which,--the umbrella, the speech, or the look?" asked Psyche, who wasnot sentimental."Ah, you have no soul for art in nature, and nature in art," sighedthe amber-tressed Larkins. "I have, for I feed upon a glance, a tint,a curve, with exquisite delight. Rubens is adorable (as a study);that lustrous eye, that night of hair, that sumptuous cheek, areperfect. He only needs a cloak, lace collar, and slouching hat to bethe genuine thing.""This isn't the genuine thing by any means. What does it need?" saidPsyche, looking with a despondent air at the head on her stand.Many would have pronounced it a clever thing; the nose was strictlyGreek, the chin curved upward gracefully, the mouth was sweetlyhaughty, the brow classically smooth and low, and the breezy hair welldone. But something was wanting; Psyche felt that, and could havetaken her Venus by the dimpled shoulders, and given her a heartyshake, if that would have put strength and spirit into the lifelessface."Now I am perfectly satisfied with my Apollo, though you all insistthat it is the image of Theodore Smythe. He says so himself, andassures me it will make a sensation when we exhibit," remarked MissLarkins, complacently caressing the ambrosial locks of her SmythifiedPhebus."What shall you do if it does not?" asked Miss Cutter, with elegance."I shall feel that I have mistaken my sphere, shall drop my tools,veil my bust, and cast myself into the arms of Nature, since Artrejects me;" replied Miss Larkins, with a tragic gesture and anexpression which strongly suggested that in her eyes nature meantTheodore."She must have capacious arms if she is to receive all Art's rejectedadmirers. Shall I be one of them?"Psyche put the question to herself as she turned to work, but somehowambitious aspirations were not in a flourishing condition thatmorning; her heart was not in tune, and head and hands sympathized.Nothing went well, for certain neglected home-duties had doggedher into town, and now worried her more than dust, or heat, or theceaseless clatter of tongues. Tom, Dick, and Harry's unmended hosepersisted in dancing a spectral jig before her mental eye, mother'squerulous complaints spoilt the song she hummed to cheer herself, andlittle May's wistful face put the goddess of beauty entirely out ofcountenance."It's no use; I can't work till the clay is wet again. Where isGiovanni?" she asked, throwing down her tools with a petulant gestureand a dejected air."He is probably playing truant in the empty upper rooms, as usual. Ican't wait for him any longer, so I'm doing his work myself," answeredMiss Dickenson, who was tenderly winding a wet bandage round herJuno's face, one side of which was so much plumper than the other thatit looked as if the Queen of Olympus was being hydropathically treatedfor a severe fit of ague."I'll go and find the little scamp; a run will do me good; so will abreath of air and a view of the park from the upper windows."Doffing her apron, Psyche strolled away up an unfrequented staircaseto the empty apartments, which seemed to be too high even for thelovers of High Art. On the western side they were shady and cool, and,leaning from one of the windows, Psyche watched the feathery tree-topsruffled by the balmy wind, that brought spring odors from the hills,lying green and sunny far away. Silence and solitude were suchpleasant companions that the girl forgot herself, till a shrillwhistle disturbed her day-dreams, and reminded her what she came for.Following the sound she found the little Italian errand-boy busilyuncovering a clay model which stood in the middle of a scantilyfurnished room near by."He is not here; come and look; it is greatly beautiful," criedGiovanni, beckoning with an air of importance.Psyche did look and speedily forgot both her errand and herself. Itwas the figure of a man, standing erect, and looking straightbefore him with a wonderfully lifelike expression. It was neither amythological nor a historical character, Psyche thought, and was gladof it, being tired to death of gods and heroes. She soon ceased towonder what it was, feeling only the indescribable charm of somethinghigher than beauty. Small as her knowledge was, she could see andenjoy the power visible in every part of it; the accurate anatomy ofthe vigorous limbs, the grace of the pose, the strength and spirit inthe countenance, clay though it was. A majestic figure, but the spelllay in the face, which, while it suggested the divine, was full ofhuman truth and tenderness, for pain and passion seemed to have passedover it, and a humility half pathetic, a courage half heroic seemed tohave been born from some great loss or woe.How long she stood there Psyche did not know. Giovanni went awayunseen, to fill his water-pail, and in the silence she just stood andlooked. Her eyes kindled, her color rose, despondency and discontentvanished, and her soul was in her face, for she loved beautypassionately, and all that was best and truest in her did honor to thegenius of the unknown worker."If I could do a thing like that, I'd die happy!" she exclaimedimpetuously, as a feeling of despair came over her at the thought ofher own poor attempts."Who did it, Giovanni?" she asked, still looking up at the grand facewith unsatisfied eyes."Paul Gage."It was not the boy's voice, and, with a start, Psyche turned to seeher Michael Angelo, standing in the doorway, attentively observingher. Being too full of artless admiration to think of herself justyet, she neither blushed nor apologized, but looked straight at him,saying heartily,--"You have done a wonderful piece of work, and I envy you more than Ican tell!"The enthusiasm in her face, the frankness of her manner, seemed toplease him, for there was no affectation about either. He gave her akeen, kind glance out of the "fine gray eyes," a little bow, and agrateful smile, saying quietly,--"Then my Adam is not a failure inspite of his fall?"Psyche turned from the sculptor to his model with increased admirationin her face, and earnestness in her voice, as she exclaimeddelighted,--"Adam! I might have known it was he. O sir, you have indeed succeeded,for you have given that figure the power and pathos of the first manwho sinned and suffered, and began again.""Then I am satisfied." That was all he said, but the look he gave hiswork was a very eloquent one, for it betrayed that he had paid theprice of success in patience and privation, labor and hope."What can one do to learn your secret?" asked the girl wistfully, forthere was nothing in the man's manner to disturb her self-forgetfulmood, but much to foster it, because to the solitary worker thisconfiding guest was as welcome as the doves who often hopped in at hiswindow."Work and wait, and meantime feed heart, soul, and imagination withthe best food one can get," he answered slowly, finding it impossibleto give a receipt for genius."I can work and wait a long time to gain my end; but I don't knowwhere to find the food you speak of?" she answered, looking at himlike a hungry child."I wish I could tell you, but each needs different fare, and each mustlook for it in different places."The kindly tone and the sympathizing look, as well as the lines in hisforehead, and a few gray hairs among the brown, gave Psyche courage tosay more."I love beauty so much that I not only want to possess it myself,but to gain the power of seeing it in all things, and the art ofreproducing it with truth. I have tried very hard to do it, butsomething is wanting; and in spite of my intense desire I never geton."As she spoke the girl's eyes filled and fell in spite of herself, andturning a little with sudden shamefacedness she saw, lying on thetable beside her among other scraps in manuscript and print, thewell-known lines,-- "I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty; I woke, and found that life was duty. Was thy dream then a shadowy lie? Toil on, sad heart, courageously, And thou shall find thy dream to be A noonday light and truth to thee."She knew them at a glance, had read them many times, but now they camehome to her with sudden force, and, seeing that his eye had followedhers, she said in her impulsive fashion.--"Is doing one's duty a good way to feed heart, soul, and imagination?"As if he had caught a glimpse of what was going on in her mind, Paulanswered emphatically,--"Excellent; for if one is good, one is happy, and if happy, one canwork well. Moulding character is the highest sort of sculpture, andall of us should learn that art before we touch clay or marble."He spoke with the energy of a man who believed what he said, and didhis best to be worthy of the rich gift bestowed upon him. The sightof her violets in a glass of water, and Giovanni staring at her withround eyes, suddenly recalled Psyche to a sense of the proprietieswhich she had been innocently outraging for the last ten minutes. Asort of panic seized her; she blushed deeply, retreated precipitatelyto the door, and vanished, murmuring thanks and apologies as she went."Did you find him? I thought you had forgotten," said Miss Dickenson,now hard at work."Yes, I found him. No, I shall not forget," returned Psyche, thinkingof Gage, not Giovanni.She stood before her work eying it intently for several minutes; then,with an expression of great contempt for the whole thing, she suddenlytilted her cherished Venus on to the floor, gave the classical facea finishing crunch, and put on her hat in a decisive manner, sayingbriefly to the dismayed damsels,--"Good-by, girls; I shan't come any more, for I'm going to work at homehereafter."IIThe prospect of pursuing artistic studies at home was not brilliant,as one may imagine when I mention that Psyche's father was a painfullyprosaic man, wrapt in flannel, so to speak; for his woollen mills lefthim no time for anything but sleep, food, and newspapers. Mrs. Deanwas one of those exasperating women who pervade their mansions likea domestic steam-engine one week and take to their sofas the next,absorbed by fidgets and foot-stoves, shawls and lamentations. Therewere three riotous and robust young brothers, whom it is unnecessaryto describe except by stating that they were boys in the broadestsense of that delightful word. There was a feeble little sister, whosepatient, suffering face demanded constant love and care to mitigatethe weariness of a life of pain. And last, but not least by any means,there were two Irish ladies, who, with the best intentions imaginable,produced a universal state of topsy-turviness when left to themselvesfor a moment.But being very much in earnest about doing her duty, not because itwas her duty, but as a means toward an end, Psyche fell to work witha will, hoping to serve both masters at once. So she might have done,perhaps, if flesh and blood had been as plastic as clay, but the livemodels were so exacting in their demands upon her time and strength,that the poor statues went to the wall. Sculpture and sewing, callsand crayons, Ruskin and receipt-books, didn't work well together, andpoor Psyche found duties and desires desperately antagonistic. Take aday as a sample."The washing and ironing are well over, thank goodness, mother quiet,the boys out of the way, and May comfortable, so I'll indulge myselfin a blissful day after my own heart," Psyche said, as she shutherself into her little studio, and prepared to enjoy a few hours ofhard study and happy day-dreams.With a book on her lap, and her own round white arm going through allmanner of queer evolutions, she was placidly repeating, "Deltoides,Biceps, Triceps, Pronator, Supinator, Palmanis, Flexor carpiulnaris--""Here's Flexis what-you-call-ums for you," interrupted a voice, whichbegan in a shrill falsetto and ended in a gruff bass, as a flushed,dusty, long-legged boy burst in, with a bleeding hand obliginglyextended for inspection."Mercy on us, Harry! what have you done to yourself now? Split yourfingers with a cricket-ball again?" cried Psyche, as her arms went upand her book went down."I just thrashed one of the fellows because he got mad and said fatherwas going to fail.""O Harry, is he?""Of course he isn't! It's hard times for every one, but father willpull through all right. No use to try and explain it all; girls can'tunderstand business; so you just tie me up, and don't worry," was thecharacteristic reply of the young man, who, being three years herjunior, of course treated the weaker vessel with lordly condescension."What a dreadful wound! I hope nothing is broken, for I haven'tstudied the hand much yet, and may do mischief doing it up," saidPsyche, examining the great grimy paw with tender solicitude."Much good your biceps, and deltoids, and things do you, if you can'tright up a little cut like that," squeaked the ungrateful hero."I'm not going to be a surgeon, thank heaven; I intend to makeperfect hands and arms, not mend damaged ones," retorted Psyche, in adignified tone, somewhat marred by a great piece of court-plaster onher tongue."I should say a surgeon could improve that perfect thing, if hedidn't die a-laughing before he began," growled Harry, pointing witha scornful grin at a clay arm humpy with muscles, all carefullydeveloped in the wrong places."Don't sneer, Hal, for you don't know anything about it. Wait a fewyears and see if you're not proud of me.""Sculp away and do something, then I'll hurrah for your mud-pieslike a good one;" with which cheering promise the youth left, havingeffectually disturbed his sister's peaceful mood.Anxious thoughts of her father rendered "biceps, deltoids, and things"uninteresting, and hoping to compose her mind, she took up The OldPainters and went on with the story of Claude Lorraine. She had justreached the tender scene where,--"Calista gazed with enthusiasm, while she looked like a being ofheaven rather than earth. 'My friend,' she cried, 'I read in thypicture thy immortality!' As she spoke, her head sunk upon his bosom,and it was several moments before Claude perceived that he supported alifeless form.""How sweet!" said Psyche, with a romantic sigh."Faith, and swate it is, thin!" echoed Katy, whose red head had justappeared round the half opened door. "It's gingy-bread I'm making theday, miss, and will I be puttin' purlash or sallyrathis into it, if yeplase?""Purlash, by all means," returned the girl, keeping her countenance,fearing to enrage Katy by a laugh; for the angry passions of thered-haired one rose more quickly than her bread.As she departed with alacrity to add a spoonful of starch and a pinchof whiting to her cake, Psyche, feeling better for her story and hersmile, put on her bib and paper cap and fell to work on the deformedarm. An hour of bliss, then came a ring at the door-bell, followed byBiddy to announce callers, and add that as "the mistress was in herbed, miss must go and take care of 'em." Whereat "miss" cast down hertools in despair, threw her cap one way, her bib another, and went into her guests with anything but a rapturous welcome.Dinner being accomplished after much rushing up and down stairs withtrays and messages for Mrs. Dean, Psyche fled again to her studio,ordering no one to approach under pain of a scolding. All went welltill, going in search of something, she found her little sistersitting on the floor with her cheek against the studio door."I didn't mean to be naughty, Sy, but mother is asleep, and the boysall gone, so I just came to be near you; it's so lonely everywhere,"she said, apologetically, as she lifted up the heavy head that alwaysached."The boys are very thoughtless. Come in and stay with me; you are sucha mouse you won't disturb me. Wouldn't you like to play be a model andlet me draw your arm, and tell you all about the nice little bones andmuscles?" asked Psyche, who had the fever very strong upon her justthen.May didn't look as if the proposed amusement overwhelmed her withdelight, but meekly consented to be perched upon a high stool withone arm propped up by a dropsical plaster cherub, while Psyche drewbusily, feeling that duty and pleasure were being delightfullycombined."Can't you hold your arm still, child? It shakes so I can't get itright," she said, rather impatiently."No, it will tremble 'cause it's weak. I try hard, Sy, but theredoesn't seem to be much strongness in me lately.""That's better; keep it so a few minutes and I'll be done," cried theartist, forgetting that a few minutes may seem ages."My arm is so thin you can see the bunches nicely,--can't you?""Yes, dear."Psyche glanced up at the wasted limb, and when she drew again therewas a blur before her eyes for a minute."I wish I was as fat as this white boy; but I get thinner every daysomehow, and pretty soon there won't be any of me left but my littlebones," said the child, looking at the winged cherub with sorrowfulenvy."Don't, my darling; don't say that," cried Psyche, dropping her workwith a sudden pang at her heart. "I'm a sinful, selfish girl to keepyou here! you're weak for want of air; come out and see the chickens,and pick dandelions, and have a good romp with the boys."The weak arms were strong enough to clasp Psyche's neck, and the tiredface brightened beautifully as the child exclaimed, with gratefuldelight,--"Oh, I'd like it very much! I wanted to go dreadfully; but everybodyis so busy all the time. I don't want to play, Sy; but just to lie onthe grass with my head in your lap while you tell stories and draw mepretty things as you used to."The studio was deserted all that afternoon, for Psyche sat in theorchard drawing squirrels on the wall, pert robins hopping by,buttercups and mosses, elves and angels; while May lay contentedlyenjoying sun and air, sisterly care, and the "pretty things" she lovedso well. Psyche did not find the task a hard one; for this time herheart was in it, and if she needed any reward she surely found it; forthe little face on her knee lost its weary look, and the peace andbeauty of nature soothed her own troubled spirit, cheered her heart,and did her more good than hours of solitary study.Finding, much to her own surprise, that her fancy was teeming withlovely conceits, she did hope for a quiet evening. But mother wanted abit of gossip, father must have his papers read to him, the boys hadlessons and rips and grievances to be attended to, May's lullaby couldnot be forgotten, and the maids had to be looked after, lest burly"cousins" should be hidden in the boiler, or lucifer matches amongthe shavings. So Psyche's day ended, leaving her very tired, ratherdiscouraged, and almost heart-sick with the shadow of a coming sorrow.All summer she did her best, but accomplished very little, as shethought; yet this was the teaching she most needed, and in time shecame to see it. In the autumn May died, whispering, with her armsabout her sister's neck,--"You make me so happy, Sy, I wouldn't mind the pain if I could stay alittle longer. But if I can't, good-by, dear, good-by."Her last look and word and kiss were all for Psyche, who felt thenwith grateful tears that her summer had not been wasted; for the smileupon the little dead face was more to her than any marble perfectionher hands could have carved.In the solemn pause which death makes in every family, Psyche said,with the sweet self-forgetfulness of a strong yet tender nature,--"I must not think of myself, but try to comfort them;" and with thisresolution she gave herself heart and soul to duty, never thinking ofreward.A busy, anxious, humdrum winter, for, as Harry said, "it was hardtimes for every one." Mr. Dean grew gray with the weight of businesscares about which he never spoke; Mrs. Dean, laboring under thedelusion that an invalid was a necessary appendage to the family,installed herself in the place the child's death left vacant, and theboys needed much comforting, for the poor lads never knew how muchthey loved "the baby" till the little chair stood empty. All turned toSy for help and consolation, and her strength seemed to increase withthe demand upon it. Patience and cheerfulness, courage and skill cameat her call like good fairies who had bided their time. Housekeepingceased to be hateful, and peace reigned in parlor and kitchen whileMrs. Dean, shrouded in shawls, read Hahnemann's Lesser Writings on hersofa. Mr. Dean sometimes forgot his mills when a bright face cameto meet him, a gentle hand smoothed the wrinkles out of his anxiousforehead, and a daughterly heart sympathized with all his cares. Theboys found home very pleasant with Sy always there ready to "lend ahand," whether it was to make fancy ties, help conjugate "a confoundedverb," pull candy, or sing sweetly in the twilight when all thought oflittle May and grew quiet.The studio door remained locked till her brothers begged Psyche toopen it and make a bust of the child. A flush of joy swept over herface at the request, and her patient eyes grew bright and eager, asa thirsty traveller's might at the sight or sound of water. Then itfaded as she shook her head, saying with a regretful sigh, "I'm afraidI've lost the little skill I ever had."But she tried, and with great wonder and delight discovered that shecould work as she had never done before. She thought the newly foundpower lay in her longing to see the little face again; for it grewlike magic under her loving hands, while every tender memory, sweetthought, and devout hope she had ever cherished, seemed to lend theiraid. But when it was done and welcomed with tears and smiles, andpraise more precious than any the world could give, then Psyche saidwithin herself, like one who saw light at last,--"He was right; doing one's duty is the way to feed heart, soul, andimagination; for if one is good, one is happy, and if happy, one canwork well."III"She broke her head and went home to come no more," was Giovanni'ssomewhat startling answer when Paul asked about Psyche, finding thathe no longer met her on the stairs or in the halls. He understood whatthe boy meant, and with an approving nod turned to his work again,saying, "I like that! If there is any power in her, she has taken theright way to find it out, I suspect."How she prospered he never asked; for, though he met her morethan once that year, the interviews were brief ones in street,concert-room, or picture-gallery, and she carefully avoided speakingof herself. But, possessing the gifted eyes which can look below thesurface of things, he detected in the girl's face something betterthan beauty, though each time he saw it, it looked older and morethoughtful, often anxious and sad."She is getting on," he said to himself with a cordial satisfactionwhich gave his manner a friendliness as grateful to Psyche as his wisereticence.Adam was finished at last, proved a genuine success, and Paul heartilyenjoyed the well-earned reward for years of honest work. One blitheMay morning, he slipped early into the art-gallery, where the statuenow stood, to look at his creation with paternal pride. He was quitealone with the stately figure that shone white against the purpledraperies and seemed to offer him a voiceless welcome from its marblelips. He gave it one loving look, and then forgot it, for at the feetof his Adam lay a handful of wild violets, with the dew still onthem. A sudden smile broke over his face as he took them up, with thethought, "She has been here and found my work good."For several moments he stood thoughtfully turning the flowers to andfro in his hands; then, as if deciding some question within himself,he said, still smiling,--"It is just a year since she went home; she must have accomplishedsomething in that time; I'll take the violets as a sign that I may goand ask her what."He knew she lived just out of the city, between the river and themills, and as he left the streets behind him, he found more violetsblooming all along the way like flowery guides to lead him right.Greener grew the road, balmier blew the wind, and blither sang thebirds, as he went on, enjoying his holiday with the zest of a boy,until he reached a most attractive little path winding away across thefields. The gate swung invitingly open, and all the ground before itwas blue with violets. Still following their guidance he took thenarrow path, till, coming to a mossy stone beside a brook, he sat downto listen to the blackbirds singing deliciously in the willows overhead. Close by the stone, half hidden in the grass lay a little book,and, taking it up he found it was a pocket-diary. No name appeared onthe fly-leaf, and, turning the pages to find some clue to its owner,he read here and there enough to give him glimpses into an innocentand earnest heart which seemed to be learning some hard lessonpatiently. Only near the end did he find the clue in words of his own,spoken long ago, and a name. Then, though longing intensely to knowmore, he shut the little book and went on, showing by his altered facethat the simple record of a girl's life had touched him deeply.Soon an old house appeared nestling to the hillside with the rivershining in the low green meadows just before it."She lives there," he said, with as much certainty as if the pansiesby the door-stone spelt her name, and, knocking, he asked for Psyche."She's gone to town, but I expect her home every minute. Ask thegentleman to walk in and wait, Katy," cried a voice from above, wherethe whisk of skirts was followed by the appearance of an inquiring eyeover the banisters.The gentleman did walk in, and while he waited looked about him. Theroom, though very simply furnished, had a good deal of beauty in it,for the pictures were few and well chosen, the books such as nevergrow old, the music lying on the well-worn piano of the sort which isnever out of fashion, and standing somewhat apart was one small statuein a recess full of flowers. Lovely in its simple grace and truth wasthe figure of a child looking upward as if watching the airy flight ofsome butterfly which had evidently escaped from the chrysalis stilllying in the little hand.Paul was looking at it with approving eyes when Mrs. Dean appearedwith his card in her hand, three shawls on her shoulders, and in herface a somewhat startled expression, as if she expected some noveldemonstration from the man whose genius her daughter so much admired."I hope Miss Psyche is well," began Paul, with great discrimination ifnot originality.The delightfully commonplace remark tranquillized Mrs. Dean at once,and, taking off the upper shawl with a fussy gesture, she settledherself for a chat."Yes, thank heaven, Sy is well. I don't know what would become of usif she wasn't. It has been a hard and sorrowful year for us with Mr.Dean's business embarrassments, my feeble health, and May's death.I don't know that you were aware of our loss, sir;" and unaffectedmaternal grief gave sudden dignity to the faded, fretful face of thespeaker.Paul murmured his regrets, understanding better now the pathetic wordson a certain tear-stained page of the little book still in his pocket."Poor dear, she suffered everything, and it came very hard upon Sy,for the child wasn't happy with any one else, and almost lived inher arms," continued Mrs. Dean, dropping the second shawl to get herhandkerchief."Miss Psyche has not had much time for art-studies this year, Isuppose?" said Paul, hoping to arrest the shower, natural as it was."How could she with two invalids, the housekeeping, her father and theboys to attend to? No, she gave that up last spring, and though it wasa great disappointment to her at the time, she has got over it now, Ihope," added her mother, remembering as she spoke that Psyche even nowwent about the house sometimes pale and silent, with a hungry look inher eyes."I am glad to hear it," though a little shadow passed over his faceas Paul spoke, for he was too true an artist to believe that any workcould be as happy as that which he loved and lived for. "I thoughtthere was much promise in Miss Psyche, and I sincerely believe thattime will prove me a true prophet," he said, with mingled regret andhope in his voice, as he glanced about the room, which betrayed thetastes still cherished by the girl."I'm afraid ambition isn't good for women; I mean the sort that makesthem known by coming before the public in any way. But Sy deservessome reward, I'm sure, and I know she'll have it, for a betterdaughter never lived."Here the third shawl was cast off, as if the thought of Psyche, or thepresence of a genial guest had touched Mrs. Dean's chilly nature witha comfortable warmth.Further conversation was interrupted by the avalanche of boys whichcame tumbling down the front stairs, as Tom, Dick, and Harry shoutedin a sort of chorus,--"Sy, my balloon has got away; lend us a hand at catching him!""Sy, I want a lot of paste made, right off.""Sy, I've split my jacket down the back; come sew me up, there's adear!"On beholding a stranger the young gentlemen suddenly lost theirvoices, found their manners, and with nods and grins took themselvesaway as quietly as could be expected of six clumping boots and anunlimited quantity of animal spirits in a high state of effervescence.As they trooped off, an unmistakable odor of burnt milk pervaded theair, and the crash of china, followed by an Irish wail, caused Mrs.Dean to clap on her three shawls again and excuse herself in visibletrepidation.Paul laughed quietly to himself, then turned sober and said, "PoorPsyche!" with a sympathetic sigh. He roamed about the room impatientlytill the sound of voices drew him to the window to behold the girlcoming up the walk with her tired old father leaning on one arm, theother loaded with baskets and bundles, and her hands occupied by aremarkably ugly turtle."Here we are!" cried a cheery voice, as they entered without observingthe new-comer. "I've done all my errands and had a lovely time. Thereis Tom's gunpowder, Dick's fishhooks, and one of Professor Gazzy'sfamous turtles for Harry. Here are your bundles, mother dear, and,best of all, here's father home in time for a good rest before dinner.I went to the mill and got him."Psyche spoke as if she had brought a treasure; and so she had,for though Mr. Dean's face usually was about as expressive as theturtle's, it woke and warmed with the affection which his daughter hadfostered till no amount of flannel could extinguish it. His big handpatted her cheek very gently as he said, in a tone of fatherly loveand pride,--"My little Sy never forgets old father, does she?""Good gracious me, my dear, there's such a mess in the kitchen! Katy'sburnt up the pudding, put castor-oil instead of olive in the salad,smashed the best meat-dish, and here's Mr. Gage come to dinner," criedMrs. Dean in accents of despair as she tied up her head in a fourthshawl."Oh, I'm so glad; I'll go in and see him a few minutes, and then I'llcome and attend to everything; so don't worry, mother.""How did you find me out?" asked Psyche as she shook hands with herguest and stood looking up at him with all the old confiding franknessin her face and manner."The violets showed me the way."She glanced at the posy in his button-hole and smiled."Yes, I gave them to Adam, but I didn't think you would guess. Ienjoyed your work for an hour to-day, and I have no words strongenough to express my admiration.""There is no need of any. Tell me about yourself: what have you beendoing all this year?" he asked, watching with genuine satisfaction theserene and sunny face before him, for discontent, anxiety, and sadnesswere no longer visible there."I've been working and waiting," she began."And succeeding, if I may believe what I see and hear and read," hesaid, with an expressive little wave of the book as he laid it downbefore her."My diary! I didn't know I had lost it. Where did you find it?""By the brook where I stopped to rest. The moment I saw your name Ishut it up. Forgive me, but I can't ask pardon for reading a few pagesof that little gospel of patience, love, and self-denial."She gave him a reproachful look, and hurried the telltale book out ofsight as she said, with a momentary shadow on her face,--"It has been a hard task; but I think I have learned it, and am justbeginning to find that my dream is 'a noonday light and truth,' tome.""Then you do not relinquish your hopes, and lay down your tools?" heasked, with some eagerness."Never! I thought at first that I could not serve two masters, butin trying to be faithful to one I find I am nearer and dearer to theother. My cares and duties are growing lighter every day (or I havelearned to bear them better), and when my leisure does come I shallknow how to use it, for my head is full of ambitious plans, and I feelthat I can do something now."All the old enthusiasm shone in her eyes, and a sense of powerbetrayed itself in voice and gesture as she spoke."I believe it," he said heartily. "You have learned the secret, asthat proves."Psyche looked at the childish image as he pointed to it, and into herface there came a motherly expression that made it very sweet."That little sister was so dear to me I could not fail to make herlovely, for I put my heart into my work. The year has gone, but Idon't regret it, though this is all I have done.""You forget your three wishes; I think the year has granted them.""What were they?""To possess beauty in yourself, the power of seeing it in all things,and the art of reproducing it with truth."She colored deeply under the glance which accompanied the threefoldcompliment, and answered with grateful humility,--"You are very kind to say so; I wish I could believe it." Then, as ifanxious to forget herself, she added rather abruptly,--"I hear you think of giving your Adam a mate,--have you begun yet?""Yes, my design is finished, all but the face.""I should think you could image Eve's beauty, since you have succeededso well with Adam's.""The features perhaps, but not the expression. That is the charm offeminine faces, a charm so subtile that few can catch and keep it. Iwant a truly womanly face, one that shall be sweet and strong withoutbeing either weak or hard. A hopeful, loving, earnest face with atender touch of motherliness in it, and perhaps the shadow of a griefthat has softened but not saddened it.""It will be hard to find a face like that.""I don't expect to find it in perfection; but one sometimes sees faceswhich suggest all this, and in rare moments give glimpses of a lovelypossibility.""I sincerely hope you will find one then," said Psyche, thinking ofthe dinner."Thank you; I think I have."Now, in order that every one may be suited, we will stop here, andleave our readers to finish the story as they like. Those who preferthe good old fashion may believe that the hero and heroine fell inlove, were married, and lived happily ever afterward. But those whocan conceive of a world outside of a wedding-ring may believe that thefriends remained faithful friends all their lives, while Paul won fameand fortune, and Psyche grew beautiful with the beauty of a serene andsunny nature, happy in duties which became pleasures, rich in the artwhich made life lovely to herself and others, and brought rewards intime.

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