In such bitter hours, he would again grow bold, and mock her with the memory of the past, until the spirit of indignant resistance seemed roused within her, when, once more softening his tone, he would point her with flattering words to her own image on the broken altar. He would shew her the beauty still lingering in its marred and weather-worn features, and help her to decorate it with gay colours and tinsel ornaments, placing in her hands the golden censer, with the sweet incense which had been made in happier days for far other uses; and she would wave the fragrant compound before the idol image of herself. But with the pure spices which made it sweet, the enemy had mixed a narcotic poison, and as she languidly swung the censer to and fro, her brain would become intoxicated with the voluptuous sweetness, until, in a dream of vain delight, she would fall asleep, and forget all her miseries. And ever, as she slept, he would rivet faster the chain which, unperceived by her, was being bound around her, every year making her range of action narrower and her movements less free. Wild beasts, also, made their lair in the desolate temple-chambers, prowling in and out where formerly meek and heavenly beings had ministered, and making the shattered walls echo with their loud howls and sullen roarings, where once had sounded strains of pure and joyous music. Thus, day by day, the ruin spread, and the desolation and desecration became more complete. But it happened one spring, that two little singing-birds came back from the sunny clime where they had wintered, and began building their nest above the ancient altar. There was something in the spring-time which often brought tears to the eyes of the fallen priestess, she scarcely knew why. The world seemed then like one happy temple full of thankful songs; and as, day by day, the sun repaired the ruins of winter, and the choral services of the woods took a fuller tone, on her heart there fell the mournful sense of the ruins around her, which no spring-tide could restore. Yet something of a softer feeling, a melancholy which breathed of hope, stole over her, and she watched those two happy birds building their nest, and warbling as they worked. At last, the nest was finished, the happy mother-bird sat on her eggs, and the pair had much leisure for confidential conversation. "How desolate this place is," said the mother-bird. "And it was once so beautiful," replied her mate. "Why is it not rebuilt?" she asked. "None can rebuild but the hand that built," was the mysterious reply. "But would not the architect come if asked? He is so good. Was it not he who taught us to build our nest; and I am sure nothing can be better done than that." "That is the difficulty," was the reply. "The priestess does not know he is so good, and is afraid to utter his name. If she only called him, he would come." "Is he near enough?" "He is always near."