ey were wise, who represented Horus--the symbol of the triumph of
good over evil and of purity over the impure--in the form of a child.
Bless you, my little friend; be good, and always give away what you have
to make others happy. It will not make your house rich--but it will your
heart!"

Scherau clung to the priest, and involuntarily raised his little hand
to stroke Pentaur's cheek. An unknown tenderness had filled his little
heart, and he felt as if he must throw his arms round the poet's neck
and cry upon his breast.

But Pentaur set him down on the ground, and he trotted down into the
valley. There he paused. The sun was high in the heavens, and he must
return to the witch's cave and his board, but he would so much like to
go a little farther--only as far as to the king's tomb, which was quite
near.

Close by the door of this tomb was a thatch of palm-branches, and under
this the sculptor Batau, a very aged man, was accustomed to rest. The
old man was deaf, but he passed for the best artist of his time, and
with justice; he had designed the beautiful pictures and hieroglyphic
inscriptions in Seti's splendid buildings at Abydos and Thebes, as well
as in the tomb of that prince, and he was now working at the decoration
of the walls in the grave of Rameses.

Scherau had often crept close up to him, and thoughtfully watched him at
work, and then tried himself to make animal and human figures out of a
bit of clay.

One day the old man had observed him.

The sculptor had silently taken his humble attempt out of his hand, and
had returned it to him with a smile of encouragement.

From that time a peculiar tie had sprung up between the two. Scherau
would venture to sit down by the sculptor, and try to imitate his
finished images. Not a word was exchanged between them, but often
the deaf old man would destroy the boy's works, often on the contrary
improve them with a touch of his own hand, and not seldom nod at him to
encourage him.

When he staid away the old man missed his pupil, and Scherau's happiest
hours were those which he passed at his side.

He was not forbidden to take some clay home with him. There, when the
old woman's back was turned, he moulded a variety of images which he
destroyed as soon as they were finished.

While he lay on his rack his hands were left free, and he tried to
reproduce the various forms which lived in his imagination, he forgot
the present in his artistic attempts, and his bit