er, and
beads that sparkled and flashed with all the most lovely combinations
of colour that the mind of artist could devise. Yet more he did, for
he spent vast sums on priceless pearls and hung them in her ears and
upon her cold white breast; and the merchants wondered who could be
the one upon whom Pygmalion lavished the money from his treasury.

To his divinity he gave a name--"Galatea"; and always on still nights
the myriad silver stars would seem to breathe to him "Galatea" ... and
on those days when the tempests blew across the sandy wastes of Arabia
and churned up the fierce white surf on the rocks of Cyprus, the very
spirit of the storm seemed to moan through the crash of waves in
longing, hopeless and unutterable--"Galatea!... Galatea!..." For her
he decked a couch with Tyrian purple, and on the softest of pillows he
laid the beautiful head of the marble woman that he loved.

So the time wore on until the festival of Aphrodite drew near. Smoke
from many altars curled out to sea, the odour of incense mingled with
the fragrance of the great pine trees, and garlanded victims lowed and
bleated as they were led to the sacrifice. As the leader of his
people, Pygmalion faithfully and perfectly performed all his part in
the solemnities and at last he was left beside the altar to pray
alone. Never before had his words faltered as he laid his petitions
before the gods, but on this day he spoke not as a sculptor-king, but
as a child who was half afraid of what he asked.

"O Aphrodite!" he said, "who can do all things, give me, I pray you,
one like my Galatea for my wife!"

"Give me my Galatea," he dared not say; but Aphrodite knew well the
words he would fain have uttered, and smiled to think how Pygmalion at
last was on his knees. In token that his prayer was answered, three
times she made the flames on the altar shoot up in a fiery point, and
Pygmalion went home, scarcely daring to hope, not allowing his
gladness to conquer his fear.

The shadows of evening were falling as he went into the room that he
had made sacred to Galatea. On the purple-covered couch she lay, and
as he entered it seemed as though she met his eyes with her own;
almost it seemed that she smiled at him in welcome. He quickly went up
to her and, kneeling by her side, he pressed his lips on those lips of
chilly marble. So many times he had done it before, and always it was
as though the icy lips that could never live sent their chill right
throu