In reply he led her to his studio. Cecily had an artist's eye, and more—a woman's.
"What mean," said she, "these emblems by the side of Eve?"
The sculptor blushed.
"When I made them," he answered, "I did not know Cecily Van Eyck."
"'Tis well. But after these emblems of defects, which perhaps women have not, what do you intend to bestow upon your own sex?"
"I had already commenced," stammered Verbruggen—"you see the eagle. 'Twas perhaps somewhat vain."
"Vain! Oh! no; not at all. The eagle—a bird of prey and rapine, the symbol of brutal tyranny—nothing could be fitter. Well, and what further do you intend?"
Verbruggen could find no reply.
"Well, then, listen," continued his wife, "to render full justice to your sex, near the eagle you will place a fox, emblem of deceit; a parrot, emblem of noisy chatter; a monkey eating grapes, symbol of intoxication; and a jackdaw, emblem of silly pride."
Verbruggen executed her orders with a docility most edifying. The pulpit was soon finished, and, fortunately for us, has been preserved intact through years of war and revolution. Higher teachings have been proclaimed from it, but to those who know its story even its dumb wood speaks a salutary lesson.