her own poor attempts.

"Who did it, Giovanni?" she asked, still looking up at the grand face
with unsatisfied eyes.

"Paul Gage."

It was not the boy's voice, and, with a start, Psyche turned to see
her Michael Angelo, standing in the doorway, attentively observing
her. Being too full of artless admiration to think of herself just
yet, she neither blushed nor apologized, but looked straight at him,
saying heartily,--

"You have done a wonderful piece of work, and I envy you more than I
can tell!"

The enthusiasm in her face, the frankness of her manner, seemed to
please him, for there was no affectation about either. He gave her a
keen, kind glance out of the "fine gray eyes," a little bow, and a
grateful smile, saying quietly,--"Then my Adam is not a failure in
spite of his fall?"

Psyche turned from the sculptor to his model with increased admiration
in her face, and earnestness in her voice, as she exclaimed
delighted,--

"Adam! I might have known it was he. O sir, you have indeed succeeded,
for you have given that figure the power and pathos of the first man
who sinned and suffered, and began again."