any of you, when you are seven or eight and
twenty, knitting your brows over any work you want to do or to
understand, as I saw you, Lily, knitting your brows over your slate this
morning, I should think you very noble women. But--to come back to my
dream--St. Barbara _did_ lose her temper a little; and I was not
surprised. For you can't think how provoking Neith looked, sitting there
just like a statue of sandstone; only going on weaving, like a machine;
and never quickening the cast of her shuttle; while St. Barbara was
telling her so eagerly all about the most beautiful things, and
chattering away, as fast as bells ring on Christmas Eve, till she saw
that Neith didn't care; and then St. Barbara got as red as a rose, and
stopped, just in time;--or I think she would really have said something
naughty.

ISABEL. Oh, please, but didn't Neith say anything then?

L. Yes. She said, quite quietly, 'It may be very pretty, my love; but it
is all nonsense.'

ISABEL. Oh dear, oh dear; and then?

L. Well; then I was a little angry myself, and hoped St. Barbara would
be quite angry; but she wasn't. She bit her lips first; and then gave a
great sigh--such a wild, sweet sigh--and then she knelt down and hid her
face on Neith's knees. Then Neith smiled a little, and was moved.

ISABEL. Oh, I am so glad!

L. And she touched St. Barbara's forehead with a flower of white lotus;
and St. Barbara sobbed once or twice, and then said: 'If you only could
see how beautiful it is, and how much it makes people feel what is good
and lovely; and if you could only hear the children singing in the Lady
chapels!' And Neith smiled,--but still sadly,--and said, 'How do you
know what I have seen, or heard, my love? Do you think all those vaults
and towers of yours have been built without me? There was not a pillar
in your Giotto's Santa Maria del Fiore which I did not set true by my
spearshaft as it rose. But this pinnacle and flame work which has set
your little heart on fire, is all vanity; and you will see what it will
come to, and that soon; and none will grieve for it more than I. And
then every one will disbelieve your pretty symbols and types. Men must
be spoken simply to, my dear, if you would guide them kindly, and long.'
But St. Barbara answered, that, 'Indeed she thought every one liked her
work,' and that 'the people of different towns were as eager about their
cathedral towers as about their privileges or their markets;' and then
she