observe, under the shade of Brunelleschi's dome, as
she would have been under that of Christopher
Wren.

Carlo Bardi had acquired more modern notions,
and, moreover, was not an enthusiast in any way,
though Laura's enthusiasm appeared infinitely
beautiful to him.

"I do think, then, in all truth," replied he to
Laura's outburst, "that your work has quite the
style of the old workmen. But I very much
fear, my Laura, that the world's tastes have so
much changed, that, with the exception of here
and there a purchaser with antiquarian tastes,
this beautiful work of yours would not be calculated
to meet the modern demand. Look, now,
at this model of a brooch," added he, taking a
small case from his pocket, "that we have just
received from Paris at our place, as a sample of
the last new style."

"A sample!" cried Laura, flushing with
indignation; "and of the latest Paris style. Do
tell me, Carlo mio, whether he who wrought that
crucifix," pointing to a plaster model of an
exquisite work by Benvenuto Cellini, "used to
receive samples of the latest style from Paris?"

"Not so, Laura," replied Carlo, quietly;
"unhappily, alas! Paris and Florence have changed
places. Benvenuto sent the Parisians samples
of the newest style. That is the difference."

"No! Carlo, no! and no again. What is this
vulgar thing sent here for? That you and every
one on the bridge may make fifty dozen exactly
like it, if you could get the order for them. Is
not it true? And do you think Cellini's works
were sent to Paris with any such hope or
expectation? When the French king wanted Florentine
art, he had to bring the Florentine artist, I think,
and not samples to Paris."

"That is very true, Laura mia," said Carlo,
stooping across the bench to press a kiss on the
cheek that was so charmingly coloured by her
disdainful mood; "but say, darling, why do you
call this French brooch vulgar? Is not it very
pretty?"

"It is vulgar," said Laura, nodding her graceful
head, "first, because it is a sample, and may
serve for one; because anybody can make
another exactly like it, and as good as the original.
It is vulgar, secondly, because the value of it is
more in the intrinsic cost of the material than in
the workmanship; and, thirdly, it is vulgar
because no sentiment went to the making of it;
the maker put none of his individuality into it,
and it is, therefore, as one would say of a human
being, all body and no brain, and no heart."

"It is quite true," replied Carlo, "that our
modern workmen would turn you out as many
dozen of such brooches as you choose to order,
not one of which could you tell from the original.
But still, modern work has its advantages and
excellences. See, now, these circular lines!
They are perfectly accurate. See how truly in
the centre is the exact point that ought to be the
centre. You know how constantly the old works,
even of the first hands, are inaccurate in such
matters. A lopsided circle, an untrue angle, or
a false centre, would not be tolerated now-a-
days."

"So much the worse for those who won't
tolerate them!" cried Laura. "I love the careless
inaccuracies of the old workers. Their care
was occupied otherwise. These little departures
from mechanical accuracy mark the individuality
of the artist. An artist is not a machine, to
work with machine-like precision. Is one man's
mind the exact counterpart of another's? Am I
the same one day that I am another? I like the
careless inexactitude that marks the humanity of
the artist without injuring the expression of his
thought, better than the precision which only
shows that your compasses were in good order.
But as for my poor trinket here, one of the here
and there individuals of antiquarian tastes has
been met with, for this is a commission for an
Englishman. It came to me through Signor
Raddi, at the gallery."

"I am delighted to hear it, my own Laura!"
said Carlo; "for the truth is, that I am thinking
of the subject rather from the mercantile
than from the artistic point of view. And you
know, that if all goes well for our hopes
tomorrow, as please God it will, it is in that light
that we must look at it."

"Heaven grant that all may go well!"
responded Laura, fervently; "but oh, Carlo, I
fear, I fear. I think I shall sit here and work at
my pearls all night. For then I shall think of
my work, and get over the hours. But I am
sure I shall not sleep a wink. Sometimes it
seems to come out quite clear to me, that of
course my father will never consent to take off
the old name that has been over the shop for
three generations. You don't know how much
pride my poor father has in his business."

"I think, my Laura, that when the business
was, the pride was; but both, I suspect, have
been killed by the same malady," said Carlo, a
little bitterly. "Besides," he added, "there is
the too evident difficulty of going on, as things
are. Surely your father must feel painfully
anxious for the future, and will welcome a
proposition which will, I trust, remove all anxiety
from him for ever."

"You forget, Carlo dear, that my father feels
poverty only as one does who is on the point of
leaving it behind him for ever. He is well and
truly persuaded that the prize, which has so
often seemed within his grasp, will come at last,
and that soon. And if it should, Carlo——"

"Laura! by all the saints, don't let me hear you
talk in that way too! Have you not seen enough
of lottery drawing and gambling by this time?"
said sensible Carlo, sadly.

"But my dear father does understand the
lottery as few others do," pleaded Laura. "And
I am sure, if calculation and meditation on the
cabala and the mathematics can avail, he ought
to win."

"Laura! Laura! for Heaven's sake don't talk
so!" groaned poor Carlo, with real alarm. "Tell