retorted Annie, glancing with
imperceptible slightness at the artist's small and slender frame.
"Well; here is the thimble."

"But that is a strange idea of yours," said Owen, "about the
spiritualization of matter."

And then the thought stole into his mind that this young girl possessed
the gift to comprehend him better than all the world besides. And what
a help and strength would it be to him in his lonely toil if he could
gain the sympathy of the only being whom he loved! To persons whose
pursuits are insulated from the common business of life--who are either
in advance of mankind or apart from it--there often comes a sensation
of moral cold that makes the spirit shiver as if it had reached the
frozen solitudes around the pole. What the prophet, the poet, the
reformer, the criminal, or any other man with human yearnings, but
separated from the multitude by a peculiar lot, might feel, poor Owen
felt.

"Annie," cried he, growing pale as death at the thought, "how gladly
would I tell you the secret of my pursuit! You, methinks, would
estimate it rightly. You, I know, would hear it with a reverence that I
must not expect from the harsh, material world."

"Would I not? to be sure I would!" replied Annie Hovenden, lightly
laughing. "Come; explain to me quickly what is the meaning of this
little whirligig, so delicately wrought that it might be a plaything
for Queen Mab. See! I will put it in motion."

"Hold!" exclaimed Owen, "hold!"

Annie had but given the slightest possible touch, with the point of a
needle, to the same minute portion of complicated machinery which has
been more than once mentioned, when the artist seized her by the wrist
with a force that made her scream aloud. She was affrighted at the
convulsion of intense rage and anguish that writhed across his
features. The next instant he let his head sink upon his hands.

"Go, Annie," murmured he; "I have deceived myself, and must suffer for
it. I yearned for sympathy, and thought, and fancied, and dreamed that
you might give it me; but you lack the talisman, Annie, that should
admit you into my secrets. That touch has undone the toil of months and
the thought of a lifetime! It was not your fault, Annie; but you have
ruined me!"

Poor Owen Warland! He had indeed erred, yet pardonably; for if any
human spirit could have sufficiently reverenced the processes so sacred
in his eyes, it must have been a woman's. Even Annie Hovenden, possibly
might not hav