at every hour I discovered something to change and to improve in the pose of the head, the glance of the eye or the expression of the mouth.  But still I lacked courage to put the work in hand, for it seemed too audacious to attempt to give reality to the glorious image in my soul, by the aid of gray clay and pale cold marble; to reproduce it so that the perfect work should delight the eye of sense, no less than the image enshrined in my breast delights my inward eye.  At the same time I was not idle, I gained the prize for the model of the lions, and if I have succeeded with the Good Shepherd blessing the flock, which is for the sarcophagus of Comes, and if the master could praise the expression of devoted tenderness in the look of the Redeemer, I know—­nay, do not interrupt me, mother, for what I felt was a pure emotion and no sin—­ I know that it was because I was myself so full of love, that I was enabled to inspire the very stone with love.  At last I had no peace, and even without my father’s orders I must have returned home; then I saw her again, and found her even more lovely than the image which reigned in my soul.  I heard her voice, and her silvery bell-like laughter—­and then—­ and then—.  You know very well what I learned yesterday.  The unworthy wife of an unworthy husband, the woman Sirona, is gone from me for ever, and I was striving to drive her image from my soul, to annihilate it and dissipate it—­but in vain! and by degrees a wonderful stress of creative power came upon me.  I hastily placed the lamps, took the clay in my hand, and feature by feature I brought forth with bitter joy the image that is deeply graven in my heart, believing that thus I might be released from the spell.  There is the fruit which was ripened in my heart, but there, where it so long has dwelt, I feel a dismal void, and if the husk which so long tenderly enfolded this image were to wither and fall asunder, I should not wonder at it.—­To that thing there clings the best part of my life.”

“Enough!” exclaimed Dorothea, interrupting her son who stood before her in great agitation and with trembling lips.  “God forbid that that mask there should destroy your life and soul.  I suffer nothing impure within my house, and you should not in your heart.  That which is evil can never more be fair, and however lovely the face there may look to you, it looks quite as repulsive to me when I reflect that it probably smiled still more fascinatingly on some strolling beggar.  If the Gaul brings her back I will turn her out of my house, and I will destroy her image with my own hands if you do not break it in pieces on the spot.”

Dorothea’s eyes were swimming in tears as she spoke these words.  She had felt with pride and emotion during her son’s speech how noble and high-minded he was, and the idea that this rare and precious treasure should be spoilt or perhaps altogether ruined for the sake of a lost woman, drove her to desperation, and filled her motherly heart with indignation.