“But which of us will be thine?” thought Pierre. He smothered a deep sigh, and only answered, “I thank you, Rosabella.”
Well aware that these envious feelings were unworthy of a noble soul, he contended with them bravely, and treated Florien even more cordially than usual. “I will follow our good master’s advice,” said he; “I will try to clothe my good machinery in forms of beauty. Let us both make a watch for Rosabella, and present it to her on her next birth-day. You will rival me, no doubt; for the Graces threw their garlands on you when you were born.” “Bravo!” shouted Florien, laughing and clapping his hands. “The poetry is kindling up in your soul. I always told you that you would be a poet, if you could only express what was in you.”
“And your soul expresses itself so easily, so fluently!” said Pierre, with a sigh.
“Because my springs lie so near the surface, and yours have depths to come from,” replied his good-natured companion.
“The worst of it is, the cord is apt to break before I can draw up my weighty treasures,” rejoined Pierre, with a smile. “There is no help for it. There will always be the same difference between us, that there is in our names. I am a rock, and you are a flower. I might be hewed and chiselled into harmonious proportions; but you grow into beauty.”
“Then be a rock, and a magnificent one,” replied his friend, “and let the flower grow at your feet.”
“That sounds modestly and well,” answered Pierre; “but I wish to be a flower, because——”
“Because what?” inquired Florien, though he half guessed the secret, from his embarrassed manner.
“Because I think Rosabella likes flowers better than rocks,” replied Pierre, with uncommon quickness, as if the words gave him pain.
On New Year’s day, the offerings, enclosed in one box, were presented by the good grandfather. The first was a golden apple, which opened and revealed on one side an exquisitely neat watch, surrounded by a garland tastefully wrought in rich damaskeening of steel and gold; on the other side was a rose intertwined with forget-me-nots, very perfectly done in mosaic. When the stem of the apple was turned, a favourite little tune of Rosabella’s sounded from within.