less than rosy clouds, or the hearts of roses, or something as fair and spiritual.
"I am only a wretched deposit!" sighed Lampblack, and the rusty palette-knife grumbled back, "My own life has been ruined in cleaning dirty brushes!"
"But at least you were of use once; but I never am,—never!" said Lampblack. And indeed he had been there so long that the spiders had spun their silver fleeces all about him, and he was growing as gray as an old bottle does in a dark cellar.
At that moment the door of the studio opened, and there came a flood of light, and the step of a man was heard; the hearts of all the colors jumped for joy. It was their magician, who out of mere common clays and ground ores could raise them at a touch into splendors immortal.
Only the heart of poor dusty Lampblack did not beat a throb the more, because he was always left alone and never was thought worthy of even a glance. But he could not believe his senses when the master crossed the floor to the dark corner where he lay under the spiders' webs. Lampblack felt sick and faint with rapture. Had his turn come at last?
The master took him up. "You will do for this work," he said; and Lampblack was borne trembling to an easel. The colors, for once neglected, crowded together to watch, looking in their bright tin tubes like rows of little soldiers in armor.
