"
"Which will be forgotten in the first change of taste, or crumbled in
the first fire. But see, he is awake. Come here, my master, and work
this nostril, for it is beyond me."
The old artist advanced and looked at the bust with admiration.
"Maid Miriam," he said, "I used to have some skill in this art, and I
taught you its rudiments; but now, child, I am not fit to temper your
clay. Deal with the nostril as you will; I am but a hodman who bears the
bricks, you are the heaven-born architect. I will not meddle, I will not
meddle; yet perhaps----" and he made a suggestion.
"So?" said Miriam, touching the clay with her tool. "Oh, look! it is
right now. You are clever, my master."
"It was always right. I may be clever, but you have genius, and would
have found the fault without any help from me."
"Did I not say so?" broke in Marcus triumphantly.
"Sir," replied Miriam, "you say a great deal, and much of it, I think,
you do not mean. Please be silent; at this moment I wish to study your
lips, and not your words."
So the work went on. They did not always talk, for soon they found that
speech is not necessary to true companionship. Once Miriam began to
sing, and since she discovered that her voice pleased Marcus and soothed
the slumbers of the elders, she sang often; quaint, sad songs of the
desert and of the Jordan fishermen.
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