"And are you not satisfied with your success?" demanded the girl, whose own eye began to dilate, and gleam, as it caught the kindred spark of enthusiasm from the flaming orbs of Pollexfen. "Satisfied!" cried he; "satisfied! Not until my _camera_ flashes back the silver sheen of the planets, and the golden twinkle of the stars. Not until earth and all her daughters can behold themselves in yon mirror, clad in their radiant robes. Not until each hue of the rainbow, each tint of the flower, and the fitful glow of roseate beauty, changeful as the tinge of summer sunsets, have all been captured, copied, and embalmed forever by the triumphs of the human mind! Least of all, could I be satisfied now at the very advent of a nobler era in my art." "And do you really believe," inquired Lucile, "that color can be photographed as faithfully as light and shade?" "Believe, girl? _I know it._ Does not your own beautiful eye print upon its retina tints, dyes and hues innumerable? And what is the eye but a lens? God was the first photographer. Give me but a living, sentient, perfect human eye to dissect and analyze, and I swear by the holy book of science that I will detect the secret, though hidden deep down in the primal particles of matter." "And why a human eye? Why not an eagle's or a lion's?" "A question I once propounded to myself, and never rested till it was solved," replied Pollexfen. "Go into my parlor, and ask my pets if I have not been diligent, faithful, and honest. I have tested every eye but the human. From the dull shark's to the imperial condor's, I have tried them all. Months elapsed ere I discovered the error in my reasoning. Finally, a little boy explained it all. 'Mother,' said a child, in my hearing, 'when the pigeons mate, do they choose the prettiest birds?' 'No,' said his mother. 'And why not?' pursued the boy. Because, responded I, waking as from a dream, _they have no perception of color_! The animal world sports in light and shade; the human only rejoices in the apprehension of color. Does the horse admire the rainbow? or does the ox spare the buttercup and the violet, because they are beautiful? The secret lies in the human eye alone. An eye! an eye! give me but one, Lucile!" As the girl was about to answer, the photographer again interposed, "Not now; I want no answer now; I give you a month for reflection." And so saying, he left the room as unceremoniously as he had entered. The struggle in the mind of Lucile was sharp and decisive. Dependent herself upon her daily labor, her lover an invalid, and her nearest kindred starving, were facts that spoke in deeper tones than the thunder to her soul. Besides, was not one eye to be spared her, and was not a single eye quite as good as two? She thought, too, how glorious it would be if Pollexfen should not be mistaken, and she herself should conduce so essentially to the noblest triumph of the photographic art.