and, finally, he swears that he does not even know 'whatever things cows are!' However, Apollo turns a deaf ear to all his wiles and pleadings, and compels him to go before Jupiter; who laughs to hear his plausible account of himself,--'and every word a lie,'--but finally bids him show Apollo where he has hidden the stolen cattle. This he does, 'nothing loath,' and finally subdues the sun-god ----'by the might, Of winning music, to his mightier will: . . . . . sweet as love, The penetrating notes did live and move Within the heart of great Apollo: he Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure.' "And here we may as well leave them. For the rest of the story,--as well as for many pleasant pictures and nice touches, of which my abstract gives no hint,--you should go to the poem itself." "I shall be sure to do so," said Bergan, "with this arch, airy little figure to lead the way. But it should be in marble, it seems to me, rather than in plaster." Astra smiled gravely. "For that, a patron--or, at least, a purchaser--is needed. Marble is expensive as well as indestructible; few artists can afford to put their works into its safe keeping, without help. And perhaps it is as well that such is the case, else Posterity would never be able to bear the stony accumulation that would be heaped on its back." "I think I can venture to promise that it would never feel this airy creation to be a burden," said Bergan, earnestly. "I hope not. But my little Mercury is still my youngest darling, and I feel all a mother's partiality for it; I have no eyes for its faults. When the inevitable time of disenchantment comes, and I am able to see it as it is, I can better tell whether I care to commit it to the white immortality of marble." She continued to gaze at the statue for some moments with fond, dreamy, wistful eyes,---just as a mother might regard her newborn infant. Bergan felt a slight pang in beholding this nearness of the work to its author, this strong, tender, indissoluble bond between the two. Would ever any work of his--any brief, or plea--come from such a warm depth of his heart, and embody so much of his life? A poet, a musician even, might know something of this deep gladness of creation; but a lawyer, a judge, dealing with dry reason and dusty legal enactments,--was there any such joy in his work for him?