The books in their places, Mr. Yorke seated himself to look over a casket of precious coins and rings. "Wouldn't you think that papa was dreaming over some old love-token of his boyhood?" whispered Clara to her brother.
Her father had fallen into a dream over an old ring with a Latin posy in it; and what he saw was this: a blue sky, jewel-blue, over Florence, in whose air, says Vasari, "lies an immense stimulus to aspire after fame and honor." He saw a superb garden, peopled with sculptured forms, and three men standing before an antique marble. It is Bertoldo, Donatello's pupil, young Michael Angelo, and Lorenzo the Magnificent, the glory of Florence, whose face all the people and all the children love; and they are walking in the gardens of San Marco, the art-treasury of the Medici. Farther off, moving slowly under the trees, with his hands behind his back, and his eagle face bent in thought, is the learned and elegant Poliziano. Suddenly he pauses, a smile flashes across his face, he brings his hands forward to clap them together, and goes to meet the three who have respected his seclusion. "How now, Poliziano," laughs the duke, "do we not deserve to hear the result of those musings which we were so careful not to intrude upon?" And the scholar, whose epigrams no less than his Greek and his translations are the pride of the court, bows lowly, and repeats the very posy engraved on this ring over which Mr. Yorke now dreams in the nineteenth century, in the woods of Maine, in April weather.
The bright Italian picture faded. Mr. Yorke sighed and put the magical ring away, and took up a volume of Villemain's Histoire de la Littérature Française, turning the leaves idly.
Melicent made a slight movement, and begged to be heard. "We girls have been talking matters over to-day," she said, "and would like to submit our plans to you. We have divided the house-work into three parts, which we take in rotation. One is to be lady's-maid and companion for mamma, another is to make the beds and dust all the rooms, and the third will set the table, wash the china and silver, and trim the lamps."
Mr. Yorke looked up quickly as his daughter began, but immediately dropped his eyes again, and sat with a flushed face, frowning slightly. It was his first intimation that his daughters had not only lost society and luxury, but that their personal ease was gone. They would have to perform menial labors.
"I think your arrangement a very good one, Melicent," Mrs. Yorke replied tranquilly. She had all the time seen the necessity. "But the post of lady's-maid will be a sinecure. However, let it stay. It will be a time of leisure for each."
"Cannot Betsey do the work?" Mr. Yorke asked sharply.
"Why, papa!" Clara cried out, "Betsey can scarcely spare time out of the kitchen to do the sweeping. When we come to making butter, we girls will have to help in the fine ironing."
"I can churn!" Mr. Yorke exclaimed desperately.