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And the daughter sighed very quietly. And how much may lie in one little sigh, or be placed in it! The young man placed a great deal in it. The two blue eyes, lit up that evening in honour of him, must conceal treasures–treasures of the heart and mind–richer than all the glories of Rome; and when he left the party that night he had lost his heart–lost it completely, to the young lady.

The house of the head tax-collector’s widow was the one which Mr. Alfred the sculptor most assiduously frequented; and it was understood that his visits were not intended for that lady, though he and she were the people who kept up the conversation; he came for the daughter’s sake. They called her Kala. Her name was really Calen Malena, and these two names had been contracted into the one name, Kala. She was beautiful; but a few said she was rather dull, and probably slept late of a morning.

“She has been always accustomed to that,” her mother said. “She’s a beauty, and they always are easily tired. She sleeps rather late, but that makes her eyes so clear.”

What a power lay in the depths of these dark blue eyes! “Still waters run deep.” The young man felt the truth of this proverb; and his heart had sunk into the depths. He spoke and told his adventures, and the mamma was as simple and eager in her questioning as on the first evening of their meeting.

It was a pleasure to hear Alfred describe anything. He spoke of Naples, of excursions to Mount Vesuvius, and showed coloured prints of several of the eruptions. And the head tax-collector’s widow had never heard of them before, or taken time to consider the question.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “So that is a burning mountain! But is it not dangerous to the people round about?”

“Whole cities have been destroyed,” he answered; “for instance, Pompeii and Herculaneum.”

“But the poor people!–And you saw all that with your own eyes?”

“No, I did not see any of the eruptions represented in these pictures, but I will show you a picture of my own, of an eruption I saw.”

He laid a pencil sketch upon the table, and mamma, who had been absorbed in the contemplation of the highly coloured prints, threw a glance at the pale drawing, and cried in astonishment,

“Did you see it throw up white fire?”

For a moment Alfred’s respect for Kala’s mamma suffered a sudden diminution; but, dazzled by the light that illumined Kala, he soon found it quite natural that the old lady should have no eye for colour. After all, it was of no consequence, for Kala’s mamma had the best of all things–namely, Kala herself.

And Alfred and Kala were betrothed, which was natural enough, and the betrothal was announced in the little newspaper of the town. Mamma purchased thirty copies of the paper, that she might cut out the paragraph and send it to friends and acquaintances. And the betrothed pair were happy, and the mother-in-law elect was happy too; for it seemed like connecting herself with Thorwaldsen.

“For you are a continuation of Thorwaldsen,” she said to Alfred. And it seemed to Alfred that mamma had in this instance said a clever thing. Kala said nothing; but her eyes shone, her lips smiled, her every movement was graceful: yes, she was beautiful; that cannot be too often repeated.

Alfred undertook to take a bust of Kala and of his mother-in-law. They sat to him accordingly, and saw how he moulded and smoothed the soft clay with his fingers.

“I suppose it’s only on our account,” said mamma-in-law, “that you undertake this commonplace work, and don’t leave your servant to do all that sticking together.”

“It is highly necessary that I should mould the clay myself,” he replied.

“Ah, yes, you are so very polite,” retorted mamma; and Kala silently pressed his hand, still soiled by the clay.