At the opposite side of the conservatory was a corresponding door, veiled by an ample fold of silken tapestry, cunningly hand-worked in representation of a moon half veiled in clouds, shining athwart a stormy sea.  By her light a laboring ship was warned off the rocks to leeward.  The room (one of the later additions) by its external promise might have been the bower of some fashionable beauty thousands of years ago.

Balder looked from one of these doors to the other, doubting at which to apply.  The tapestry curtain was swept aside at the base, leaving a small passage clear to the room beyond.  In this opening now appeared the bright-crested head and eyes of the hoopoe, peeping mischievously at the intruder, who forthwith stepped down into the conservatory, holding forth to the little bird a friendly finger.  The bird eyed him critically, then launched itself on the air, and, alighting on a spray above his head, warbled out a brilliant call.

Hereupon was heard within a quick rustling movement; the curtain was thrust aside, and a youthful woman issued forth amongst the warm plants.  She was within a few feet of Balder Helwyse before seeming to realize his presence.  She caught herself motionless in an instant.  The sparkle of laughter in her eyes sank in a black depth of wonder.  Her eyes filled themselves with Balder as a lake is filled with sunshine; and he, the man of the Wilie and philosopher, could only return her gaze in voiceless admiration.

Were a face and form of primal perfection to appear among men, might not its divine originality repel an ordinary observer, used to consider beautiful such abortions of the Creator’s design as sin and degeneration have produced?  Not easily can one imagine what a real man or woman would look like.  Painting nor sculpture can teach us; we must learn, if at all, from living, electric flesh and blood.

This young woman was tall and erect with youthful majesty.  She stood like the rejoicing upgush of a living fountain.  Her contour was subtile with womanly power,—­suggesting the spring of the panther, the glide of the serpent.  Warm she seemed from the bosom of nature.  One felt from her the influence of trees, the calm of meadows, the high freedom of the blue air, the happiness of hills.  She might have been the sister of the sun.

The moulding finger of God seemed freshly to have touched her face.  It was simple and harmonious as a chord of music, yet inexhaustible in its variety.  It recalled no other face, yet might be seen in it the germs of a mighty nation, that should begin from her and among a myriad resemblances evolve no perfect duplicate.  No angel’s countenance, but warmest human clay, which must undergo some change before reaching heaven.  The sphinx, before the gloom of her riddle had dimmed her primal joy,—­before men vexed themselves to unravel God’s webs from without instead of from within,—­might have looked thus; or such perhaps was Isis in the first flush of her divinity,—­fresh from Him who made her immortally young and fair.