k blue eyes looked out earnestly at you from under
long dark lashes. The head was running over with dark crisp curls. The
face was also singularly refined, had an exceedingly pure and modest
expression. No Apollo, real or imagined, was ever more perfect in form
and feature. To look upon that face was to love its owner.

He was hard at work, carving, his wonderfully-drawn plans about him. It
was certainly the best modern work we had ever seen; and here, we felt,
was a genius. Probably it had been hampered for want of means, as so
many other geniuses have been since the foundation of the world. He
ought to have been known and celebrated; the master of a great and
famous _atelier_ in the chief of gay cities; appreciated by the
world--and perhaps spoilt by flattery. Instead of which, he was working
for his daily bread in a small town, unknown, unappreciated; toiling in
a small, retired workshop, where people seldom penetrated, and a good
deal of his work depended upon chance. Yet, if his face bespoke one
thing more than another, it was happiness and contentment. Ambition
seemed to have no part in his life. That he loved his art was evident
from the tenderness with which he handled his drawings and looked upon
his carvings. It may be that this love was all-sufficient for him, and
that as long as he had health to work, and fancy to create, and daily
bread to eat, he cared for nothing more.

The little rift within the lute? Ah, who is without it? What household
has not its skeleton? Where shall we find perfect happiness--or anything
perfect? In this instance it was soon apparent to us; and again we
marvelled at the inconsistency of human nature; the incongruity of
things; the way men spoil their lives and make crooked things that ought
to be, and might have been, so straight.

We could not help wondering what sort of help-meet this Apollo had
chosen for himself; what angelic mother had given to the world this
little blue-eyed cherub, whose fitting place seemed not earth but
heaven.

Even as we wondered we were answered. A voice called to the child from
above, and the child turned its lovely head, but moved not. Then the
owner of the voice was heard descending, and the mother appeared. We
were dismayed. Never had we seen a woman more abandoned and neglected.
Everything about her was slovenly. Her hair fell about her face and
shoulders in tangled masses; her clothing was torn and neglected. We had
seen such exhibitions in th