oo spiritual for form, it scarcely needed the wings for flight,
it was ethereal already,--marble only so long as it remained unfinished.

At last Violet spoke.

"Do not let it go! Do not finish it; it will leave the marble then, I
know! Oh, Ernest, you have seen the spirit, and the spirit only! Could
not you hold it to earth more closely than that? It was too bold a
thought of you to try to mould the spirit alone. Is not the body
precious, too? Why wilt you be so careless of that?"

"If the body would care for me," said Ernest, "I would care for the
body. Indeed, this work shows that I have cared for the body," he went
on. "One of these days, I shall receive money for my work; I have
already sold my Psyche. One lives on money, you know. But it is but a
poor battle,--the battle of life. I shall finish my Psyche, give it to
the man who buys it, and then"----

"And then you will come home, come home to us!" said Violet; "and we
will take care of you. You shall not miss your Psyche!"

"And then," continued Ernest, shaking his head, "then I shall go into
Sicily. I shall help Garibaldi. I shall join the Italian cause."

"Garibaldi! The cause!" exclaimed Violet. "Are you not ashamed to plead
it? You know you would go then not for others, but to throw away your
own life! You are tired of living, and you seek that way to rid yourself
of life! Confess it at once!"

"Very well, then," answered Ernest, "it is so."

"Then do not sully a good cause with a traitor's help," said Violet,
"nor take its noble name. The life you offer would be worth no more than
a spent ball. You have been a coward in your own fight, and Garibaldi
does not--nor does Italy--want a coward in his ranks. Oh, Ernest,
forgive me my hard words! but it is our life that you are spending so
freely, it is our blood that you want to pour out! If you cannot live
for yourself, for me, will you not live for Harry's sake?"

"For you, for you, Heart's-Ease!" exclaimed Ernest, calling Violet by
one of her old childish names, "But Harry lives for you, and you for
him; and God knows there is no life left for me. But you are right: I am
a coward and a bungler, because I can create no life. I give myself to
you and him."

Violet stood long before the statue of Psyche, cold as the marble, with
hot fires raging within.

"He loves me, loves me as Harry does! His love is deeper,
perhaps,--higher, perhaps. He was not above me,--he lifted me above
himself, looked up to m