r hands,
saying:

"There! what do you think of that?"

In design, attitude, and drapery the figures were of the school of
Raphael; but the execution was in the style of the Florentine metal
workers--the school created by Donatello, Brunelleschi, Ghiberti,
Benvenuto Cellini, John of Bologna, and others. The French masters of
the Renaissance had never invented more strangely twining monsters than
these that symbolized the evil passions. The palms, ferns, reeds, and
foliage that wreathed the Virtues showed a style, a taste, a handling
that might have driven a practised craftsman to despair; a scroll
floated above the three figures; and on its surface, between the heads,
were a W, a chamois, and the word _fecit_.

"Who carved this?" asked Hortense.

"Well, just my lover," replied Lisbeth. "There are ten months' work in
it; I could earn more at making sword-knots.--He told me that Steinbock
means a rock goat, a chamois, in German. And he intends to mark all his
work in that way.--Ah, ha! I shall have the shawl."

"What for?"

"Do you suppose I could buy such a thing, or order it? Impossible!
Well, then, it must have been given to me. And who would make me such a
present? A lover!"

Hortense, with an artfulness that would have frightened Lisbeth Fischer
if she had detected it, took care not to express all her admiration,
though she was full of the delight which every soul that is open to a
sense of beauty must feel on seeing a faultless piece of work--perfect
and unexpected.

"On my word," said she, "it is very pretty."

"Yes, it is pretty," said her cousin; "but I like an orange-colored
shawl better.--Well, child, my lover spends his time in doing such work
as that. Since he came to Paris he has turned out three or four little
trifles in that style, and that is the fruit of four years' study
and toil. He has served as apprentice to founders, metal-casters, and
goldsmiths.--There he has paid away thousands and hundreds of francs.
And my gentleman tells me that in a few months now he will be famous and
rich----"

"Then you often see him?"

"Bless me, do you think it is all a fable? I told you truth in jest."

"And he is in love with you?" asked Hortense eagerly.

"He adores me," replied Lisbeth very seriously. "You see, child, he had
never seen any women but the washed out, pale things they all are in
the north, and a slender, brown, youthful thing like me warmed his
heart.--But, mum; you promised, you know!"