"At present, I hold that nothing is eternal--except perhaps such art as yours." "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.