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16ARIADNE.made a slave of it, he thought it never couldharm him; butIknew.' His father used tolaugh and say, How can it hurt me ? It isIwho hurt it,hewing it out of its caverns, andbreaking it up into atoms.' But all the same,one day it had its revenge — and crushed him.He was only a common rough hewer of stone.Oh,Iknow! And my son is great, and a kindof kinginhis way;but it is aU the same — themarble does not forgive. It bides its time, thenit strikesinits turn."And she accepted what it had brought her,with the kind of numbness of mingled despairand patience which is the peasant's form ofresignation to the wUl of God. In her fancy,the marble never forgave its masters;in mine,Ithought, " what art ever forgives its foUowers,when they opentheir eyes to behold anybeautyoutside its own? " .Love art alone, forsaking all other loves, andshe willmake you happy, with a happiness thatshaU defy the seasons and the sorrows of time,the pains of the vulgar and the changes offortune,and be with you day and night, a light