i?" she asked, throwing down her tools with a petulant gesture
and a dejected air.

"He is probably playing truant in the empty upper rooms, as usual. I
can't wait for him any longer, so I'm doing his work myself," answered
Miss Dickenson, who was tenderly winding a wet bandage round her
Juno's face, one side of which was so much plumper than the other that
it looked as if the Queen of Olympus was being hydropathically treated
for a severe fit of ague.

"I'll go and find the little scamp; a run will do me good; so will a
breath of air and a view of the park from the upper windows."

Doffing her apron, Psyche strolled away up an unfrequented staircase
to the empty apartments, which seemed to be too high even for the
lovers of High Art. On the western side they were shady and cool, and,
leaning from one of the windows, Psyche watched the feathery tree-tops
ruffled by the balmy wind, that brought spring odors from the hills,
lying green and sunny far away. Silence and solitude were such
pleasant companions that the girl forgot herself, till a shrill
whistle disturbed her day-dreams, and reminded her what she came for.
Following the sound she found the little Italian errand-boy busily
uncovering a clay model which stood in the middle of a scantily
furnished room near by.

"He is not here; come and look; it is greatly beautiful," cried
Giovanni, beckoning with an air of importance.

Psyche did look and speedily forgot both her errand and herself. It
was the figure of a man, standing erect, and looking straight
before him with a wonderfully lifelike expression. It was neither a
mythological nor a historical character, Psyche thought, and was glad
of it, being tired to death of gods and heroes. She soon ceased to
wonder what it was, feeling only the indescribable charm of something
higher than beauty. Small as her knowledge was, she could see and
enjoy the power visible in every part of it; the accurate anatomy of
the vigorous limbs, the grace of the pose, the strength and spirit in
the countenance, clay though it was. A majestic figure, but the spell
lay in the face, which, while it suggested the divine, was full of
human truth and tenderness, for pain and passion seemed to have passed
over it, and a humility half pathetic, a courage half heroic seemed to
have been born from some great loss or woe.

How long she stood there Psyche did not know. Giovanni went away
unseen, to fill his water-pail, and in the silence she j