sculptor. It was soon understood that his visits were not intended for that lady, though they were the persons who kept up the conversation. He came for the sake of the daughter. They called her Kæla. Her name was really Karen Malena, and these two names had been contracted into the one name Kæla, She was really beautiful; but some said she was rather dull, and slept late of a morning.
“She has been accustomed to that,” her mother said. “She is a beauty, and they are always easily tired. She does sleep rather late; but that makes her eyes so clear.”
What power seemed to lie in the depths of those dark eyes! The young man felt the truth of the proverb, “Still waters run deep;” and his heart had sunk into their depths. He often talked of his adventures, and the mamma was as simple and eager in her questions as on the first evening they met. It was a pleasure to hear Alfred describe anything. He showed them coloured plates of Naples, and spoke of excursions to Mount Vesuvius, and the eruptions of fire from it. The naval officer’s widow had never heard of them before.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “So that is a burning mountain; but is it not very dangerous to the people who live near it?”
“Whole cities have been destroyed,” he replied; “for instance, Herculaneum and Pompeii.”
“Oh, the poor people! And you saw all that with your own eyes?”
“No; I did not see any of the eruptions which are represented in those pictures; but I will show you a sketch of my own, which represents an eruption I once saw.”
He placed a pencil sketch on the table; and mamma, who had been overpowered with the appearance of the coloured plates, threw a glance at the pale drawing and cried in astonishment, “What, did you see it throw up white fire?”
For a moment, Alfred’s respect for Kæla’s mamma underwent a sudden shock, and lessened considerably; but, dazzled by the light which surrounded Kæla, he soon found it quite natural that the old lady should have no eye for colour. After all, it was of very little consequence; for Kæla’s mamma had the best of all possessions; namely, Kæla herself.
Alfred and Kæla were betrothed, which was a very natural result; and the betrothal was announced in the newspaper of the little town. Mamma purchased thirty copies of the paper, that she might cut out the paragraph and send it to friends and acquaintances. The betrothed pair were very happy, and the mother was happy too. She said it seemed like connecting herself with Thorwaldsen.
“You are a true successor of Thorwaldsen,” she said to Alfred; and it seemed to him as if, in this instance, mamma had said a very clever thing. Kæla was silent; but her eyes shone, her lips smiled, every movement was graceful,—in fact she was beautiful; that cannot be repeated too often. Alfred decided to take a bust of Kæla as well as of her mother. They sat to him accordingly, and saw how he moulded and formed the soft clay with his fingers.
