mountains be picturesque or not, the tricks which the goblins (as I am told) teach the crystals in them, are incomparably pretty.  They work chiefly on the mind of a docile, bluish-colored, carbonate of lime; which comes out of a gray limestone.  The goblins take the greatest possible care of its education, and see that nothing happens to it to hurt its temper; and when it may be supposed to have arrived at the crisis which is to a well brought up mineral, what presentation at court is to a young lady—­after which it is expected to set fashions—­there’s no end to its pretty ways of behaving.  First it will make itself into pointed darts as fine as hoarfrost; here, it is changed into a white fur as fine as silk; here into little crowns and circlets, as bright as silver; as if for the gnome princesses to wear; here it is in beautiful little plates, for them to eat off; presently it is in towers which they might be imprisoned in; presently in caves and cells, where they may make nun-gnomes of themselves, and no gnome ever hear of them more; here is some of it in sheaves, like corn; here, some in drifts, like snow; here, some in rays, like stars:  and, though these are, all of them, necessarily, shapes that the mineral takes in other places, they are all taken here with such a grace that you recognize the high caste and breeding of the crystals wherever you meet them, and know at once they are Hartz-born.

Of course, such fine things as these are only done by crystals which are perfectly good, and good-humored; and of course, also, there are ill-humored crystals who torment each other, and annoy quieter crystals, yet without coming to anything like serious war.  Here (for once) is some ill-disposed quartz, tormenting a peaceable octahedron of fluor, in mere caprice.  I looked at it the other night so long, and so wonderingly, just before putting my candle out, that I fell into another strange dream.  But you don’t care about dreams.

Dora.  No; we didn’t, yesterday; but you know we are made up of caprice; so we do, to-day:  and you must tell it us directly.

L. Well, you see, Neith and her work were still much in my mind; and then, I had been looking over these Hartz things for you, and thinking of the sort of grotesque sympathy there seemed to be in them with the beautiful fringe and pinnacle work of Northern architecture.  So, when I fell asleep, I thought I saw Neith and St. Barbara talking together.

Dora.  But what had St. Barbara to do with it?

L. My dear, I am quite sure St. Barbara is the patroness of good architects; not St. Thomas, whatever the old builders thought.  It might be very fine, according to the monks’ notions, in St. Thomas, to give all his employer’s money away to the poor:  but breaches of contract are bad foundations; and I believe, it was not he, but St. Barbara, who overlooked the work in all the buildings you and I care about.  However that may be, it was certainly she whom I saw