III

"She broke her head and went home to come no more," was Giovanni's

somewhat startling answer when Paul asked about Psyche, finding that

he no longer met her on the stairs or in the halls. He understood what

the boy meant, and with an approving nod turned to his work again,

saying, "I like that! If there is any power in her, she has taken the

right way to find it out, I suspect."

How she prospered he never asked; for, though he met her more

than once that year, the interviews were brief ones in street,

concert-room, or picture-gallery, and she carefully avoided speaking

of herself. But, possessing the gifted eyes which can look below the

surface of things, he detected in the girl's face something better

than beauty, though each time he saw it, it looked older and more

thoughtful, often anxious and sad.

"She is getting on," he said to himself with a cordial satisfaction

which gave his manner a friendliness as grateful to Psyche as his wise

reticence.

Adam was finished at last, proved a genuine success, and Paul heartily

enjoyed the well-earned reward for years of honest work. One blithe

May morning, he slipped early into the art-gallery, where the statue

now stood, to look at his creation with paternal pride. He was quite

alone with the stately figure that shone white against the purple

draperies and seemed to offer him a voiceless welcome from its marble

lips. He gave it one loving look, and then forgot it, for at the feet

of his Adam lay a handful of wild violets, with the dew still on

them. A sudden smile broke over his face as he took them up, with the

thought, "She has been here and found my work good."

For several moments he stood thoughtfully turning the flowers to and

fro in his hands; then, as if deciding some question within himself,

he said, still smiling,--

"It is just a year since she went home; she must have accomplished

something in that time; I'll take the violets as a sign that I may go

and ask her what."

He knew she lived just out of the city, between the river and the

mills, and as he left the streets behind him, he found more violets

blooming all along the way like flowery guides to lead him right.

Greener grew the road, balmier blew the wind, and blither sang the

birds, as he went on, enjoying his holiday with the zest of a boy,

until he reached a most attractive little path winding away across the

fields. The gate swung invitingly open, and all the ground before it

was blue with violets. Still following their guidance he took the

narrow path, till, coming to a mossy stone beside a brook, he sat down

to listen to the blackbirds singing deliciously in the willows over

head. Close by the stone, half hidden in the grass lay a little book,

and, taking it up he found it was a pocket-diary. No name appeared on

the fly-leaf, and, turning the pages to find some clue to its owner,

he read here and there enough to give him glimpses into an innocent

and earnest heart which seemed to be learning some hard lesson

patiently. Only near the end did he find the clue in words of his own,

spoken long ago, and a name. Then, though longing intensely to know

more, he shut the little book and went on, showing by his altered face

that the simple record of a girl's life had touched him deeply.

Soon an old house appeared nestling to the hillside with the river

shining in the low green meadows just before it.

"She lives there," he said, with as much certainty as if the pansies

by the door-stone spelt her name, and, knocking, he asked for Psyche.

"She's gone to town, but I expect her home every minute. Ask the

gentleman to walk in and wait, Katy," cried a voice from above, where

the whisk of skirts was followed by the appearance of an inquiring eye

over the banisters.

The gentleman did walk in, and while he waited looked about him. The

room, though very simply furnished, had a good deal of beauty in it,

for the pictures were few and well chosen, the books such as never

grow old, the music lying on the well-worn piano of the sort which is

never out of fashion, and standing somewhat apart was one small statue

in a recess full of flowers. Lovely in its simple grace and truth was

the figure of a child looking upward as if watching the airy flight of

some butterfly which had evidently escaped from the chrysalis still

lying in the little hand.

Paul was looking at it with approving eyes when Mrs. Dean appeared

with his card in her hand, three shawls on her shoulders, and in her

face a somewhat startled expression, as if she expected some novel

demonstration from the man whose genius her daughter so much admired.

"I hope Miss Psyche is well," began Paul, with great discrimination if

not originality.

The delightfully commonplace remark tranquillized Mrs. Dean at once,

and, taking off the upper shawl with a fussy gesture, she settled

herself for a chat.

"Yes, thank heaven, Sy is well. I don't know what would become of us

if she wasn't. It has been a hard and sorrowful year for us with Mr.

Dean's business embarrassments, my feeble health, and May's death.

I don't know that you were aware of our loss, sir;" and unaffected

maternal grief gave sudden dignity to the faded, fretful face of the

speaker.

Paul murmured his regrets, understanding better now the pathetic words

on a certain tear-stained page of the little book still in his pocket.

"Poor dear, she suffered everything, and it came very hard upon Sy,

for the child wasn't happy with any one else, and almost lived in

her arms," continued Mrs. Dean, dropping the second shawl to get her

handkerchief.

"Miss Psyche has not had much time for art-studies this year, I

suppose?" said Paul, hoping to arrest the shower, natural as it was.

"How could she with two invalids, the housekeeping, her father and the

boys to attend to? No, she gave that up last spring, and though it was

a great disappointment to her at the time, she has got over it now, I

hope," added her mother, remembering as she spoke that Psyche even now

went about the house sometimes pale and silent, with a hungry look in

her eyes.

"I am glad to hear it," though a little shadow passed over his face

as Paul spoke, for he was too true an artist to believe that any work

could be as happy as that which he loved and lived for. "I thought

there was much promise in Miss Psyche, and I sincerely believe that

time will prove me a true prophet," he said, with mingled regret and

hope in his voice, as he glanced about the room, which betrayed the

tastes still cherished by the girl.

"I'm afraid ambition isn't good for women; I mean the sort that makes

them known by coming before the public in any way. But Sy deserves

some reward, I'm sure, and I know she'll have it, for a better

daughter never lived."

Here the third shawl was cast off, as if the thought of Psyche, or the

presence of a genial guest had touched Mrs. Dean's chilly nature with

a comfortable warmth.

Further conversation was interrupted by the avalanche of boys which

came tumbling down the front stairs, as Tom, Dick, and Harry shouted

in a sort of chorus,--

"Sy, my balloon has got away; lend us a hand at catching him!"

"Sy, I want a lot of paste made, right off."

"Sy, I've split my jacket down the back; come sew me up, there's a

dear!"

On beholding a stranger the young gentlemen suddenly lost their

voices, found their manners, and with nods and grins took themselves

away as quietly as could be expected of six clumping boots and an

unlimited quantity of animal spirits in a high state of effervescence.

As they trooped off, an unmistakable odor of burnt milk pervaded the

air, and the crash of china, followed by an Irish wail, caused Mrs.

Dean to clap on her three shawls again and excuse herself in visible

trepidation.

Paul laughed quietly to himself, then turned sober and said, "Poor

Psyche!" with a sympathetic sigh. He roamed about the room impatiently

till the sound of voices drew him to the window to behold the girl

coming up the walk with her tired old father leaning on one arm, the

other loaded with baskets and bundles, and her hands occupied by a

remarkably ugly turtle.

"Here we are!" cried a cheery voice, as they entered without observing

the new-comer. "I've done all my errands and had a lovely time. There

is Tom's gunpowder, Dick's fishhooks, and one of Professor Gazzy's

famous turtles for Harry. Here are your bundles, mother dear, and,

best of all, here's father home in time for a good rest before dinner.

I went to the mill and got him."

Psyche spoke as if she had brought a treasure; and so she had,

for though Mr. Dean's face usually was about as expressive as the

turtle's, it woke and warmed with the affection which his daughter had

fostered till no amount of flannel could extinguish it. His big hand

patted her cheek very gently as he said, in a tone of fatherly love

and pride,--

"My little Sy never forgets old father, does she?"

"Good gracious me, my dear, there's such a mess in the kitchen! Katy's

burnt up the pudding, put castor-oil instead of olive in the salad,

smashed the best meat-dish, and here's Mr. Gage come to dinner," cried

Mrs. Dean in accents of despair as she tied up her head in a fourth

shawl.

"Oh, I'm so glad; I'll go in and see him a few minutes, and then I'll

come and attend to everything; so don't worry, mother."

"How did you find me out?" asked Psyche as she shook hands with her

guest and stood looking up at him with all the old confiding frankness

in her face and manner.

"The violets showed me the way."

She glanced at the posy in his button-hole and smiled.

"Yes, I gave them to Adam, but I didn't think you would guess. I

enjoyed your work for an hour to-day, and I have no words strong

enough to express my admiration."

"There is no need of any. Tell me about yourself: what have you been

doing all this year?" he asked, watching with genuine satisfaction the

serene and sunny face before him, for discontent, anxiety, and sadness

were no longer visible there.

"I've been working and waiting," she began.

"And succeeding, if I may believe what I see and hear and read," he

said, with an expressive little wave of the book as he laid it down

before her.

"My diary! I didn't know I had lost it. Where did you find it?"

"By the brook where I stopped to rest. The moment I saw your name I

shut it up. Forgive me, but I can't ask pardon for reading a few pages

of that little gospel of patience, love, and self-denial."

She gave him a reproachful look, and hurried the telltale book out of

sight as she said, with a momentary shadow on her face,--

"It has been a hard task; but I think I have learned it, and am just

beginning to find that my dream _is_ 'a noonday light and truth,' to

me."

"Then you do not relinquish your hopes, and lay down your tools?" he

asked, with some eagerness.

"Never! I thought at first that I could not serve two masters, but

in trying to be faithful to one I find I am nearer and dearer to the

other. My cares and duties are growing lighter every day (or I have

learned to bear them better), and when my leisure does come I shall

know how to use it, for my head is full of ambitious plans, and I feel

that I can do something _now_."

All the old enthusiasm shone in her eyes, and a sense of power

betrayed itself in voice and gesture as she spoke.

"I believe it," he said heartily. "You have learned the secret, as

that proves."

Psyche looked at the childish image as he pointed to it, and into her

face there came a motherly expression that made it very sweet.

"That little sister was so dear to me I could not fail to make her

lovely, for I put my heart into my work. The year has gone, but I

don't regret it, though this is all I have done."

"You forget your three wishes; I think the year has granted them."

"What were they?"

"To possess beauty in yourself, the power of seeing it in all things,

and the art of reproducing it with truth."

She colored deeply under the glance which accompanied the threefold

compliment, and answered with grateful humility,--

"You are very kind to say so; I wish I could believe it." Then, as if

anxious to forget herself, she added rather abruptly,--

"I hear you think of giving your Adam a mate,--have you begun yet?"

"Yes, my design is finished, all but the face."

"I should think you could image Eve's beauty, since you have succeeded

so well with Adam's."

"The features perhaps, but not the expression. That is the charm of

feminine faces, a charm so subtile that few can catch and keep it. I

want a truly womanly face, one that shall be sweet and strong without

being either weak or hard. A hopeful, loving, earnest face with a

tender touch of motherliness in it, and perhaps the shadow of a grief

that has softened but not saddened it."

"It will be hard to find a face like that."

"I don't expect to find it in perfection; but one sometimes sees faces

which suggest all this, and in rare moments give glimpses of a lovely

possibility."

"I sincerely hope you will find one then," said Psyche, thinking of

the dinner.

"Thank you; _I_ think I have."

Now, in order that every one may be suited, we will stop here, and

leave our readers to finish the story as they like. Those who prefer

the good old fashion may believe that the hero and heroine fell in

love, were married, and lived happily ever afterward. But those who

can conceive of a world outside of a wedding-ring may believe that the

friends remained faithful friends all their lives, while Paul won fame

and fortune, and Psyche grew beautiful with the beauty of a serene and

sunny nature, happy in duties which became pleasures, rich in the art

which made life lovely to herself and others, and brought rewards in

time.