of
the platform, turned its back on the steward's balcony, and the only
reason why he had parted with the portrait of Selene's mother, of which
he was so fond, was that his playfellow might gaze at the face whenever
she chose. He found, however, to his satisfaction, that the busts were
held in their places on their tall pedestals only by their own weight,
and he then resolved to alter the historical order of the portrait-heads
by changing their places, and to let the famous Cleopatra turn her back
upon the palace, so that his favorite bust might look towards it.

In order to carry out this purpose then and there, he called some slaves
up to help him in the alteration. This gave rise, more than once, to a
warning cry, and the loud talking and ordering on this spot, for so many
years left solitary and silent, attracted an inquirer, who, soon after
the apprentice had begun his work, had shown herself on the balcony, but
who had soon retreated after casting a glance at the dirty lad, splashed
from head to foot with plaster. This time, however, she remained to
watch, following every movement of Pollux as he directed the slaves;
though, all the time and whatever he was doing, he turned his back upon
her.

At last the portrait-head had found its right position, shrouded still in
a cloth to preserve it from the marks of workmen's hands. With a deep
breath the artist turned full on the steward's house, and immediately a
clear merry voice called out:

"What, tall Pollux! It really is tall Pollux; how glad I am!"

With these words the girl on the balcony loudly clapped her hands; and as
the sculptor hailed her in return, and shouted:

"And you are little Arsinoe, eternal gods! What the little thing has come
to!" She stood on tip-toe to seem taller, nodded at him pleasantly, and
laughed out: "I have not done growing yet; but as for you, you look quite
dignified with the beard on your chin, and your eagle's nose. Selene did
not tell me till to-day that you were living down there with the others."

The artist's eyes were fixed on the girl, as if spellbound. There are
poetic natures in which the imagination immediately transmutes every new
thing that strikes the eyes or the intelligence, into a romance, or
rapidly embodies it in verse; and Pollux, like many of his calling, could
never set his eyes on a fine human form and face, without instantly
associating them with his art.

"A Galatea--a Galatea without an equal!" thought h