"Well, perhaps it might, if he were thinking of the face, which I doubt. That is to say, the true Offero would be thinking of the King whom he was trying to serve, rather than the burthen that he was bearing. At any rate, it is just because he cannot see the face that he has such an idea of it. But to us, who can see it, it ought to show itself most benignant, most pitying, most tender and satisfying in every respect. Else, we miss the only really helpful lesson that your Offero is calculated to teach." Astra looked at her friend half sadly, half-wonderingly. "Let no one trust your gentle, innocent look, Carice," said she; "you are a sharp-sighted critic, and as severe as you are sharp-sighted." "On the contrary," returned Carice, "I am not criticising at all; I am merely telling you how your statue looks to me, in its unfinished condition. No doubt every stroke of that magical scraper of yours will take away something of the look which I do not like, and put in something of that which I long to see." "I do not know," responded Astra drearily, shaking her head. "I have not your singular depth and simplicity of vision, in spiritual things." "Nay," Carice, "you have something more than that,--the power to create; I have only the power to discern. That cherub yonder, for instance;--I am glad that I am able to see that it is lovely beyond expression, but the power to make it so, ah! that is beyond me!" And Carice moved away to the object of her admiration, and seemed to forget herself and all around her, in contemplating it. Doctor Remy remained, looking critically at the clay figure. "You have not yet said what you think of it," said Astra, turning and looking him intently in the face. "I had nothing to say--from the spiritual side," he answered, coolly. "Miss Bergan exhausted that; besides, it is not in my line. But, if you are pleased to desire my sort of criticism, here it is. That arm is too long, and that clavicle is not sufficiently raised, and this muscle is too flat. For the rest," he added, after a slight pause, "it is a sufficiently ambitious work." There was a touch of mockery in his tone which did not escape the sensitive ear of his listener. "You think it too ambitious, perhaps," she said, quietly, yet not without a keen glance at his face. He gave the clay figure another comprehensive look; then he turned to Astra with a gentler expression than she had seen in his eyes for many days past. "Poor child!" said he, pityingly, "what disadvantages your genius has to labor under, in this little, remote town, where you never see a work of art, nor an artist, from month's end to month's end! Why do you not go--for awhile, at least--where you can find something for your genius to feed upon? It is a law of life that there can be no good growth without proper food." "You know," replied Astra, very gravely, "that I cannot leave my home and my mother."