Pierre could not speak, but he covered the wrinkled hands with kisses, and clasped his knees convulsively. At last he said, “Let me remain concealed here for a while. You _shall_ see her again; only give me time.” When he explained that he would make Rosabella’s likeness, from memory, the sorrowing parent shook his head and sighed, as he answered, “Ah, my son, the soul in her eye, and the light grace of her motions, no art can restore.” But to Pierre’s excited imagination there was henceforth only one object in life; and that was to re-produce Rosabella. In the keen conflict of competition, under the fiery stimulus of love and ambition, his strong impetuous soul had become machine-mad; and now overwhelming grief centered all his stormy energies on one object. Day by day, in the loneliness of his garret, he worked upon the image till he came to love it, almost as much as he had loved the maiden herself. Antoine Breguet readily supplied materials. From childhood he had been interested in all forms of mechanism; and this image, so intertwined with his affections, took strong hold of his imagination also. Nearly a year had passed away, when the housekeeper, who was in the secret, came to ask for Rosabella’s hair, and the dress she usually wore. The old man gave her the keys, and wiped the starting tears, as he turned silently away. A few days after, Pierre invited him to come and look upon his work. “Do not go too suddenly,” he said; “prepare yourself for a shock; for indeed it is very like our lost one.” “I will go, I will go,” replied the old man, eagerly. “Am I not accustomed to see all manner of automata and androides? Did I not myself make a flute-player, which performed sixteen tunes, to the admiration of all who heard him? And think you I am to be frightened by an image?” “Not frightened, dear father,” answered Pierre; “but I was afraid you might be overcome with emotion.” He led him into the apartment, and said, “Shall I remove the veil now? Can you bear it, dear father?” “I can,” was the calm reply. But when the curtain was withdrawn, he started, and exclaimed, “Santa Maria! It _is_ Rosabella! She _is_ not dead!” He tottered forward, and kissed the cold lips and the cold hands, and tears rained on the bright brown hair, as he cried out, “My child! my child!” When the tumult of feeling had subsided, the aged mourner kissed Pierre’s hands, and said, “It is wonderfully like her, in every feature and every tint. It seems as if it would move and breathe.” “She _will_ move and breathe,” replied Pierre; “only give me time.” His voice sounded so wildly, and his great deep-set eyes burned with such intense enthusiasm, that his friend was alarmed. They clasped each other’s hands, and spoke more quietly of the beloved one. “This is all that remains to us, Pierre,” said the old man. “We are alone in the world. You were a friendless orphan when you came to me: and I am childless.”