The watch-maker and his daughter were silent. It was so beautiful, that they could not easily find words to express their pleasure. “You need not speak, my master,” said Pierre, in a manly but sorrowful tone; “I myself decide in favor of Florien. The clock is his.” “The interior workmanship is not yet examined,” rejoined his amiable competitor. “There is not a better mechanician in all Switzerland, than Pierre Berthoud.” “Ah, but you know how to invest equally good workmanship with grace and beauty,” replied the more heavily moulded Genevan. “Study the Graces, my boy; make yourself familiar with models of beauty,” said old Antoine Breguet, laying a friendly hand upon the young man’s shoulder. “I should but imitate, and he creates,” answered Pierre, despondingly; “and worst of all, my good master, I hate myself because I envy him.” “But you have many and noble gifts, Pierre,” said Rosabella, gently. “You know how delightfully very different instruments combine in harmony. Grandfather says your workmanship will be far more durable than Florien’s. Perhaps you may both be his partners.” “But which of us will be _thine_?” thought Pierre. He smothered a deep sigh, and only answered, “I thank you, Rosabella.” Well aware that these envious feelings were unworthy of a noble soul, he contended with them bravely, and treated Florien even more cordially than usual. “I will follow our good master’s advice,” said he; “I will try to clothe my good machinery in forms of beauty. Let us both make a watch for Rosabella, and present it to her on her next birth-day. You will rival me, no doubt; for the Graces threw their garlands on you when you were born.” “Bravo!” shouted Florien, laughing and clapping his hands. “The poetry is kindling up in your soul. I always told you that you would be a poet, if you could only express what was in you.” “And your soul expresses itself _so_ easily, _so_ fluently!” said Pierre, with a sigh. “Because my springs lie so near the surface, and yours have depths to come from,” replied his good-natured companion. “The worst of it is, the cord is apt to break before I can draw up my weighty treasures,” rejoined Pierre, with a smile. “There is no help for it. There will always be the same difference between us, that there is in our names. I am a rock, and you are a flower. I might be hewed and chiselled into harmonious proportions; but you grow into beauty.” “Then be a rock, and a magnificent one,” replied his friend, “and let the flower grow at your feet.” “That sounds modestly and well,” answered Pierre; “but I wish to be a flower, because----” “Because what?” inquired Florien, though he half guessed the secret, from his embarrassed manner. “Because I think Rosabella likes flowers better than rocks,” replied Pierre, with uncommon quickness, as if the words gave him pain.