For three years had the gem cutter been a widower, and he still thought more constantly and fondly of his lost wife than of the children she had left him.

Heron scratched the bird's knowing little head, saying in a tone which betrayed his pity both for himself and his pet "Yes, old fellow, you would rather have a soft white finger to stroke you down.

I can hear her now, when she would call you 'sweet little pet,' or 'dear little creature.' We shall neither of us ever hear such gentle, loving words again.

Do you remember how she would look up with her dear sweet face--and was it not a lovely face ?--when you called her by her name 'Olympias'?
How many a time have her rosy lips blown up your feathers, and cried, 'Well done, little fellow! '-- Ay, and she would say 'Well done' to me too, when I had finished a piece of work well.

Ah, and what an eye she had, particularly for art! But now well, the children give me a good word too, now that her lips are silent!" "Olympias!" cried the bird loudly and articulately, and the clouds that shadowed the gem-cutter's brow lifted a little, as with an affectionate smile he went on: "Yes, yes; you would be glad, too, to have her back again.