c, but still fervid to the touch
with fiery life, the fossil woman of an age that produced statelier,
stronger, and more passionate creatures than our own. You already felt
her compressed heat, and were aware of a tiger-like character even in
her repose. If Octavius should make his appearance, though the marble
still held her within its embrace, it was evident that she would tear
herself forth in a twinkling, either to spring enraged at his
throat, or, sinking into his arms, to make one more proof of her rich
blandishments, or, falling lowly at his feet, to try the efficacy of a
woman's tears.

"I am ashamed to tell you how much I admire this statue," said Hilda.
"No other sculptor could have done it."

"This is very sweet for me to hear," replied Kenyon; "and since your
reserve keeps you from saying more, I shall imagine you expressing
everything that an artist would wish to hear said about his work."

"You will not easily go beyond my genuine opinion," answered Hilda, with
a smile.

"Ah, your kind word makes me very happy," said the sculptor, "and I
need it, just now, on behalf of my Cleopatra. That inevitable period has
come,--for I have found it inevitable, in regard to all my works,--when
I look at what I fancied to be a statue, lacking only breath to make it
live, and find it a mere lump of senseless stone, into which I have not
really succeeded in moulding the spiritual part of my idea. I should
like, now,--only it would be such shameful treatment for a discrowned
queen, and my own offspring too,--I should like to hit poor Cleopatra a
bitter blow on her Egyptian nose with this mallet."

"That is a blow which all statues seem doomed to receive, sooner or
later, though seldom from the hand that sculptured them," said Hilda,
laughing. "But you must not let yourself be too much disheartened by
the decay of your faith in what you produce. I have heard a poet express
similar distaste for his own most exquisite poem, and I am afraid that
this final despair, and sense of short-coming, must always be the reward
and punishment of those who try to grapple with a great or beautiful
idea. It only proves that you have been able to imagine things too high
for mortal faculties to execute. The idea leaves you an imperfect image
of itself, which you at first mistake for the ethereal reality, but soon
find that the latter has escaped out of your closest embrace."

"And the only consolation is," remarked Kenyon, "that the blur