course, however carefully the
ingredients are prepared. Some of these sink to the bottom, and some
rise in scum, or, as it is called here, glass-gall, and sometimes
sandiver."

"Just like broth or society, isn't it, Optima?" suggested Miselle,
aside.

"Why don't you discover a social pontil, then?"

"Oh, I have no taste for reforming. What would there be to laugh at in
the world, if the human sandiver were removed?"

"It might be an improvement to have the gall removed, my dear," remarked
Optima, significantly; but Miselle was too busy in watching the skimming
to understand the gentle rebuke.

Thrusting the pontil far into the pot, the workman moved it gently from
side to side, turning it at the same time, until he suddenly withdrew
upon its point a large lump of glowing substance, which he shook off
upon a smooth iron table standing near, called a marver, (that is,
_marbre_,) in size and shape not unlike the largest of a nest of
teapoys. Here the lump of sandiver lay, while through its mass shot rays
of vivid prismatic color, glowing and dying along its surface so
vivaciously that one needs must fancy the salamander no fable, and that
this death of gorgeous agony was something more than the mere cooling of
an inert mass of matter.

"You see how bubbly and streaked that is now?" broke in the voice of
Cicerone upon Miselle's little dream. "But after standing awhile the air
will all escape from the pot, leaving the glass smoother, thicker, and
tougher than it is now. Don't you want to look in, before it cools off?"

With a mental protest against the fate of those luckless individuals who
threw Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego into the seven-times heated
furnace, Miselle stooped, and, looking in, uttered a cry of surprise and
delight.

It was the very soul of fire, the essence of light and heat. Above, rose
a glowing arch, quivering with an intensity of color, such as fascinates
the eye of the eagle to the noonday sun. Below, undulated in great oily
waves a sea of molten matter, throbbing in vivid curves against the
sides of its glowing basin. And arch and wall and heaving waves all
mingled in a pure harmony, an accord, of light too intense for color, or
rather a color so intense as to be nameless in this pale world.

Miselle knew now how the moth feels who plunges wildly into the flame
that lures him to his death, and yet fascinates him beyond the power of
resistance. The door was very small, or it might have b