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"A regular vale of tears! Happy the remnant of the world that dwelleth not in Eel River!" murmured Miselle, surreptitiously pulling her water-proof cloak about her shoulders. "Let me help you. Really, though, you are getting very wet, dear," remonstrated Optima. "Not in the least. I enjoy it excessively. Besides, the shower is just over.
"One minute, Optima. Do come and look at the engine in here!" cried Miselle, dragging her reluctant friend into a long, narrow den, almost filled by a black monster with shining brass ornaments, who slid his iron arms backward and forward, backward and forward, in a steady, remorseless manner, highly suggestive of what he would do, had he fists at the end of them, and all the world within reach of their swing.
"So when next we sip nectar from one of your straw-stemmed glasses, we will remember these gentlemen and their brothers of the wine-countries, and gratefully acknowledge that without their exertions we could have had neither wine nor goblet," said Miselle, maliciously. "No," suggested Optima, "we will enjoy the result and forget the process. But what is that man about?"
It explains a great many of those literary mysteries, which seem so unaccountable, in the most brilliant capital of the world. "Good morning! Is it really a rainy day?" asked Miselle, imploringly, as she seated herself at the breakfast-table, and glanced from Monsieur to the heavy sky and the vane upon the coach-house, steadily pointing west. "Indeed, I hope not.
"I am afraid it is going to be stormy, after all," piteously murmured Miselle. "I told you we should have fog-showers, you know," suggested Monsieur, with a quiet smile. "But what must we do? go home?" "No, indeed! we will go to Sandwich, let it rain twice, four times as hard as this, unless, indeed, Madame gives orders to the contrary. What say you, Madame?" "I say, let us go on for the present.
And arch and wall and heaving waves all mingled in a pure harmony, an accord, of light too intense for color, or rather a color so intense as to be nameless in this pale world. Miselle knew now how the moth feels who plunges wildly into the flame that lures him to his death, and yet fascinates him beyond the power of resistance.
"He will drop it," cried Miselle, as another boy, wielding a pontil with a lump of melted glass at the end, darted before her, and, pressing this heated end against the bottom of the lantern, picked it up and carried it away, over his shoulder, as if he were a stray member of some torch-light procession. "Not he! He's too well used to his trade," laughed Monsieur.
It is proper to state that Miselle subsequently visited the New-England Glass Company's Works in East Cambridge, Massachusetts, and, finding the method of manufacture nearly identical with that at Sandwich, has, for convenience' sake, incorporated her observations there with this account of her visit to the latter place.
All this information did the civil compounder vouchsafe to Miselle, with the indulgent air of one who humors a child by answering his questions, although quite sure that the subject is far above his comprehension; and he smiled in much amusement at seeing his answers jotted down upon her tablets. So Miselle thanked him, smiling a little in her turn, and they parted in mutual satisfaction.
"Just like broth or society, isn't it, Optima?" suggested Miselle, aside. "Why don't you discover a social pontil, then?" "Oh, I have no taste for reforming. What would there be to laugh at in the world, if the human sandiver were removed?"
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