We are, however, antedating the course of this narrative. At the time of Palissy’s introduction to the constable, he was about forty years old, and his labour to discover the enamel ware had been spread over a period of some eight years. It cost him eight years more during which he endured great toil and numerous mishaps, before he attained full perfection in the moulding and enamelling of ornamental pottery. But from this time he did not lack patronage, and business was always to be obtained sufficient for the supply of household necessities. We shall presently have occasion to return with him again to the detail of his trials and struggles, and to hear of privation and distress yet to be endured in the prosecution of the object of his ambition. But first we are about to see him in a new aspect, and it will be necessary to interrupt the story of his toil in the pursuit of art, while we dwell upon some other facts in his history, by which his mind was exercised, and his character, as a man and a Christian, formed and illustrated. CHAPTER VI. “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”—JOB i. 21, SOME six or seven years have passed away since we last saw Palissy; and it is now the month of February, 1557 . . . [Picture: “The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away”] The short day is just drawing to a close, and our old friend, who is sitting with a book open before him, has given over the effort to continue reading, and is pensively resting, with his hand supporting his head, which now begins to show a few silvery threads among the long dark brown hair that overshadows the brow. His lips are moving, and he utters the words he has just perused on the page of that holy book with which he has formed so close and reverent an acquaintance. “Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.” “Even so, Father; for so it seemed good in thy sight.” And he sighed deeply, and rising, went slowly toward a corner of the chamber, where was placed a baby’s cot. Bending down, he raised the covering that shrouded the infant form which rested there. It was that of a girl some few months old, who looked so like a marble statue, that, at first sight, you would have said, “It is the work of the sculptor.” But no; the eyes were slightly open, and the lashes drooped over the violet orbs, that even in death seemed beautiful. The father stooped to kiss the fair delicate face, and then kneeled down beside the cot, to read more closely the innocent features by the fading twilight that still lingered.