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- Стр. 104/106
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"
But
is
it
alive
?
"
exclaimed
she
again
;
and
the
finger
on
which
the
gorgeous
mystery
had
alighted
was
so
tremulous
that
the
butterfly
was
forced
to
balance
himself
with
his
wings
.
"
Tell
me
if
it
be
alive
,
or
whether
you
created
it
.
"
"
Wherefore
ask
who
created
it
,
so
it
be
beautiful
?
"
replied
Owen
Warland
.
"
Alive
?
Yes
,
Annie
;
it
may
well
be
said
to
possess
life
,
for
it
has
absorbed
my
own
being
into
itself
;
and
in
the
secret
of
that
butterfly
,
and
in
its
beauty
,
—
which
is
not
merely
outward
,
but
deep
as
its
whole
system
,
—
is
represented
the
intellect
,
the
imagination
,
the
sensibility
,
the
soul
of
an
Artist
of
the
Beautiful
!
Yes
;
I
created
it
.
But
"
—
and
here
his
countenance
somewhat
changed
—
"
this
butterfly
is
not
now
to
me
what
it
was
when
I
beheld
it
afar
off
in
the
daydreams
of
my
youth
.
"
"
Be
it
what
it
may
,
it
is
a
pretty
plaything
,
"
said
the
blacksmith
,
grinning
with
childlike
delight
.
"
I
wonder
whether
it
would
condescend
to
alight
on
such
a
great
clumsy
finger
as
mine
?
Hold
it
hither
,
Annie
.
"
By
the
artist
’
s
direction
,
Annie
touched
her
finger
’
s
tip
to
that
of
her
husband
;
and
,
after
a
momentary
delay
,
the
butterfly
fluttered
from
one
to
the
other
.
It
preluded
a
second
flight
by
a
similar
,
yet
not
precisely
the
same
,
waving
of
wings
as
in
the
first
experiment
;
then
,
ascending
from
the
blacksmith
’
s
stalwart
finger
,
it
rose
in
a
gradually
enlarging
curve
to
the
ceiling
,
made
one
wide
sweep
around
the
room
,
and
returned
with
an
undulating
movement
to
the
point
whence
it
had
started
.
"
Well
,
that
does
beat
all
nature
!
"
cried
Robert
Danforth
,
bestowing
the
heartiest
praise
that
he
could
find
expression
for
;
and
,
indeed
,
had
he
paused
there
,
a
man
of
finer
words
and
nicer
perception
could
not
easily
have
said
more
.
"
That
goes
beyond
me
,
I
confess
.
But
what
then
?
There
is
more
real
use
in
one
downright
blow
of
my
sledge
hammer
than
in
the
whole
five
years
’
labor
that
our
friend
Owen
has
wasted
on
this
butterfly
.
"
Here
the
child
clapped
his
hands
and
made
a
great
babble
of
indistinct
utterance
,
apparently
demanding
that
the
butterfly
should
be
given
him
for
a
plaything
.
Owen
Warland
,
meanwhile
,
glanced
sidelong
at
Annie
,
to
discover
whether
she
sympathized
in
her
husband
’
s
estimate
of
the
comparative
value
of
the
beautiful
and
the
practical
.
There
was
,
amid
all
her
kindness
towards
himself
,
amid
all
the
wonder
and
admiration
with
which
she
contemplated
the
marvellous
work
of
his
hands
and
incarnation
of
his
idea
,
a
secret
scorn
—
too
secret
,
perhaps
,
for
her
own
consciousness
,
and
perceptible
only
to
such
intuitive
discernment
as
that
of
the
artist
.
But
Owen
,
in
the
latter
stages
of
his
pursuit
,
had
risen
out
of
the
region
in
which
such
a
discovery
might
have
been
torture
.
He
knew
that
the
world
,
and
Annie
as
the
representative
of
the
world
,
whatever
praise
might
be
bestowed
,
could
never
say
the
fitting
word
nor
feel
the
fitting
sentiment
which
should
be
the
perfect
recompense
of
an
artist
who
,
symbolizing
a
lofty
moral
by
a
material
trifle
,
—
converting
what
was
earthly
to
spiritual
gold
,
—
had
won
the
beautiful
into
his
handiwork
.
Not
at
this
latest
moment
was
he
to
learn
that
the
reward
of
all
high
performance
must
be
sought
within
itself
,
or
sought
in
vain
.
There
was
,
however
,
a
view
of
the
matter
which
Annie
and
her
husband
,
and
even
Peter
Hovenden
,
might
fully
have
understood
,
and
which
would
have
satisfied
them
that
the
toil
of
years
had
here
been
worthily
bestowed
.
Owen
Warland
might
have
told
them
that
this
butterfly
,
this
plaything
,
this
bridal
gift
of
a
poor
watchmaker
to
a
blacksmith
’
s
wife
,
was
,
in
truth
,
a
gem
of
art
that
a
monarch
would
have
purchased
with
honors
and
abundant
wealth
,
and
have
treasured
it
among
the
jewels
of
his
kingdom
as
the
most
unique
and
wondrous
of
them
all
.
But
the
artist
smiled
and
kept
the
secret
to
himself
.
