"And you have brought it me," said Aveline taking the flower, "how good you are. I will put it in water directly. It shall have the Dresden jar all to itself; that with the holly berries." Mr. Haveloc brought the jar and rang for water. "And is this a water-lilly?" said she, still admiring the flower. "Of that species; it came from South America, and is I believe, the only one in England. I had hoped it was a lotus just to put one in mind of Moore's poetry. And how are you to-day?" "To-day? Charming. I could do all sorts of things. Walk down to the beach, or up to the village; or play a fantasia on the harp." As she spoke, a string flew. "Hark;" she said, "I have lost a harp-string; a small one I think by the sound. Just look and tell me the extent of the damage, Mr. Haveloc." "One of the very smallest. Look--up at the top here." "I must get up and mend it," said Aveline. "The harp-strings are in that drawer, Mr. Haveloc; may I trouble you?" She rose languidly, and moved to the harp; resting her hand on the table as she went: selected one of the strings Mr. Haveloc brought her, and began to undo the broken one. But, in spite of her boast, it was not one of her good days. She wavered, and caught the harp for support. "Why will you not rest;" he said, drawing a chair close to her. "I can put on your string--give me the key." Aveline sank into the chair and resigned her task to him. "But who taught you to put on harp-strings?" said she, with a searching look. "I learned it years ago of a harp player, who was teaching the sister of a friend of mine. He said I should one day find it a useful accomplishment. Do you not agree with him?" "Perfectly!" said Aveline, looking up to him with a smile. "And which does this string rhyme to?" he asked, when he had put it on. "Ah! you are right," said Aveline, "the octaves are the rhymes of music. Look, this is the octave." "Now, will you go back to the sofa?" he asked. Aveline shook her head. "I am comfortable here," she said. "I don't mean to move till I grow restless. Will you have the goodness to bring me that tray? I want to look over my tools." She threw off the handkerchief, and sat playing with her tools and turning them over like a child. Mr. Haveloc drew a low chair close to hers and began to examine them also. "Ah!" said Aveline, looking up, "I was just going to advise you to address yourself to sculpture. It is the finest of all the arts." "Do you place it above poetry?" he asked. "Sculpture is poetry," said Aveline eagerly, "only it is a universal language. It is the highest art. It is profaned as every thing in these days is profaned, by the language of ridicule and burlesque. But everything in sculpture that is not addressed to the most ideal feelings, becomes disagreeable. The ideal is the atmosphere of sculpture. It does not admit of caricature. Think of Danton's villanous statuettes," and Aveline looked all disgust.