st envied those beings to whom the
preparation for pleasure affords the greatest part of the enjoyment.
Work alone calmed her unrest. She had something to do, and this
prevented the thoughts of the festival from engaging her mind during
the day. It was only in the evenings that she would recompense herself
for the day's work, by giving full swing to her fancy.

The statue of Victory was still in the atelier and was almost finished.
High ladders were placed beside it. The artist was still chiseling at
the figure and would, now and then, hurry down to observe the general
effect and then hastily mount the ladder again in order to add a touch
here or there. Irma scarcely ventured to look up at this effigy of
herself in Grecian costume--transformed and yet herself. The idea of
being thus translated into the purest of art's forms filled her with a
tremor--half joy, half fear.

It was on a winter afternoon. Irma was working assiduously at a copy
of a bust of Theseus, for it was growing dark.

Near her, stood her preceptor's marble bust of Doctor Gunther. All was
silent; not a sound was heard save, now and then, the picking or
scratching of the chisel. At that moment, the master descended the
ladder and, drawing a deep breath, said:

"There--that will do. One can never finish. I shall not put another
stroke to it. I am afraid that retouching would only injure it. It is
done."

In the master's words and manner, struggling effort and calm content
seem mingled. He laid the chisel aside. Irma looked at him earnestly
and said:

"You are a happy man; but I can imagine that you are still unsatisfied.
I don't believe that even Raphael or Michael Angelo were ever satisfied
with the work they had completed. The remnant of dissatisfaction which
an artist feels at the completion of a work, is the germ of a new
creation."

The master nodded his approval of her words. His eyes expressed his
thanks. He went to the hydrant and washed his hands. Then he placed
himself near Irma and looked at her, while telling her that, in every
work, an artist parts with a portion of his life; that the figure, will
never again inspire the same feelings that it did while in the
workshop. Viewed from afar, and serving as an ornament, no regard would
be had to the care bestowed upon details. But the artist's great
satisfaction in his work is in having pleased himself; and yet no one
can accurately determine how, or to what extent, a conscientious
workin