"A perplexity that ends so pleasantly deserves thanks rather than pardon," returned Bergan. And having answered Mrs. Lyte's cordial greeting, and congratulated her upon the event which had brought such unaccustomed radiance into her face, Bergan turned, with a pardonable curiosity--or it might more fitly be termed, an inevitable interest,--to glance around the room in which he found himself. Never before had he happened to enter that middle ground between the airiest ideal and the earthliest real, which is occupied by a sculptor's studio. VI. OF CLAY. Bergan's first glance around the studio was necessarily a comprehensive one, dealing with general effect, rather than minute detail. A large (though not a lofty) room; a bare floor; walls crowded with designs and studies; four or five busts and statues standing around the sides, and the life-size figure of a child in the middle, of the room;--this was what that first glance revealed to him. Cathie gave him no time for a second. "Look at the dear little boy, Mr. Arling; do look at him!" she exclaimed, joining her hands over her head, and executing a rapturous _pas seul_ around the object of her delight. "See his cunning little whip, and his funny little feet, and isn't he a little white darling!" Thus besought, Bergan turned his attention to the statue in the midst. At first sight, it seemed to represent merely a pretty and playful human child, with a toy-whip in his hand, his head half-turned over one shoulder, and an arch and roguish expression, as if bent on some errand of mischief. But, while Bergan continued to gaze, fascinated, the small physiognomy seemed to grow wily and malign, as well as arch; and an intelligence, far more swift and subtle than ever infant of mortal race was gifted withal, informed the tiny features. The light feet, too, were plainly moved by deliberate purpose of guile, rather than childish impulse; and on their soles, broad sinuate leaves were bound, either for protection or disguise. Bergan looked at the figure long and earnestly, enjoying its delicate freshness and piquancy, but trying in vain to fathom its meaning. "What will-o'-the-wisp is it?" he finally asked. "And what is he doing, with his soft cunning and smiling malice?" "He is a god," replied Astra. "As to his errand, it is the laudable one of cattle-stealing." "It seems to be a case of very early depravity," said Bergan, smiling, yet puzzled. "Early enough to be termed 'original sin,'" returned Astra. "For 'The babe was born at the first peep of day * * And the same evening did he steal away Apollo's herds.'-- Did you ever read Homer's 'Hymn to Mercury?'" "Never. Indeed, I am not quite sure that I ever heard of it," replied Bergan. "Is it usually counted among his works?"