Even Hannah agreed that the American girl was charming, but regretted that she had not come from Boston instead of New York.

Uncle Bob alone was silent. Turning the white card in his fingers he stood absently looking at the door through which Miss Ethel Cartright had passed.



CHAPTER VI

UNCLE BOB AS STORY TELLER

Uncle Bob and his party remained in France several weeks, and during that time visited the old French cathedrals with their interesting windows; and saw in the Louvre much glass of early French make as well as many beautiful Venetian mirrors with all sorts of unique histories. One mirror was that famous seventeenth century possession of Marie de Medici, a looking-glass set in a frame which represented a fortune of over thirty thousand dollars. This mirror was of rock crystal combined with cut and polished agates, and around it was a network of enameled gold. Outside this inner frame was a larger one formed entirely of precious stones. Three large emeralds as well as smaller diamonds and rubies adorned it.

"Probably," said Mr. Cabot, "this is but one of many such examples of ancient luxury. Unfortunately, however, most of these extravagant affairs have been melted up by avaricious monarchs who coveted the gems and gold. Such ornate mirrors are a relic of the Renaissance when each object made was considered an art work on which every means of enrichment was lavished. I do not know that I think it any handsomer than are the simpler mirrors with their Venetian frames of exquisitely carved wood, of which there are many fine specimens in the Louvre."

"Is the mirror that was given by the Republic of Venice to Henry the Third in the Louvre?" asked Giusippe.

"No, that is in the Cluny Museum. You have heard of it, then?"

"Oh, yes; often in Venice. I have seen pictures of it, too," Giusippe replied.

"We must see it before we leave France," declared Mr. Cabot. "It was, as you already know, presented to Henry the Third on his return from Poland. It is set in a wonderfully designed frame of colored and white beveled glass, and the decoration is of alternating fleur-de-lis and palm leaves, which are fastened to the frame by a series of screws. It is quite a different sort of mirror from that of Marie de Medici."

"I should like to see it," Jean said.

"You certainly shall."

How rich France was in beautiful things! One never could see them all.

One of the sights that especially interested Jean and Hannah was the imitation gems displayed in the Paris jewelry shops. These exquisite stones, Uncle Bob told them, were made in laboratories by workmen so skilful that only an expert could distinguish the manufactured gems from the real, the stones conforming to almost every test applied to genuine jewels. They were not manufactured, however, for the purpose of deceiving people, but rather to be sold to those who either could not afford valuable stones or did not wish the care of them. The imitation pearls were especially fine, and by no means cheap either, as Hannah soon found out when she attempted to purchase a small string.

But many as were the wonderful sights in France, the continent had soon to be left behind, and almost before the travelers realized it the Channel had been crossed and they stood upon English soil. As Uncle Bob's time was limited they went direct to London, and when once there one of the first things that Giusippe wished to see were the mosaics in St. Paul's Cathedral of which he had heard so much. So they set out. On reaching the church Giusippe regarded it with awe. How unlike it was to his well loved St. Mark's. And yet how beautiful!

"These mosaics, like the ones we shall see at the Houses of Parliament, were not first made and then put up on the walls as were those such as Salviati and other Venetians shipped from Venice," explained Mr. Cabot. "No, these were made directly upon the walls, the pieces of glass being pressed into prepared areas of cement spread thickly upon the brickwork of the building. The designs are simple, large and effective figures being preferred to smaller and more intricate patterns. Millions of pieces have been used to make the pictures, and if you will notice carefully you will see that they have the rough surface which catches the light as do all the early Venetian mosaics."

Giusippe nodded.

"There must also be some fine old glass windows in London," he speculated. "Aren't there, Mr. Cabot?"

"Yes, some varieties that you did not have in Venice, too," declared Uncle Bob. "You see other people did invent something, Giusippe. Here in England in some of the older houses there are windows made of tiny pieces of white glass leaded together; people were not able at that time to get large sheets of glass such as we now use, and I am not sure that these windows made of small leaded panes were not prettier. Then you will find other windows made from what we call bull's eye glass. These bull's eyes were the centers or waste from large discs of crown glass after all the big pieces possible had been cut away. As most glass comes now in sheets crown glass is little made, and therefore we find bull's eyes rare unless manufactured expressly to imitate the antique roundels."

"Of course there is lots of old stained glass in England, isn't there, Uncle Bob?" Jean ventured.

"Yes, indeed. I am sorry to say, however, that much of it has been destroyed before the public realized its value. At Salisbury Cathedral, for instance, some of the fine old glass was taken down and beaten to pieces in order that the lead might be used. At Oxford rare Gothic windows were removed and broken up to give room for the more modern work of the Renaissance. But you will still find at Canterbury and in many other of the English churches stained glass which has escaped destruction and come down to us through hundreds of years. And speaking of how such things have been preserved I must tell you the wonderful story of the east window in St. Margaret's Chapel at Westminster."

"Oh, do tell us!" begged Jean. "I love stories."

"This story is almost like a fairy tale, when one considers that it is the history of such a fragile thing as a glass window," Mr. Cabot began. "This window of which I am telling you was Flemish in design, and is said to have been ordered by Ferdinand and Isabella when their daughter Catherine was engaged to Arthur, the Prince of Wales. But for some reason it was not delivered, and a Dutch magistrate later decided to present it to King Henry the Seventh. Unfortunately the king died before the gift arrived and it came into the hands of the Abbot of Waltham. Now these were very troublous times for a stained glass window to be traveling about the land; Cromwell was in power and his followers believed it right to destroy everything which existed merely because of its beauty. So the old abbot was afraid his treasure would be wrecked, and to insure its safety he buried it."

"How funny!"

"Yes, wasn't it?"

"What happened then?"

"After the Restoration one of the loyal generals of the Crown had the window dug up and placed in a chapel on his estate. But the house changed hands and as its new owner did not like the window he offered it to Wadham College. The college authorities, alas, did not care for it, so it remained cased up for many years. Then by and by along came an Englishman who had the courage to buy it and have it set up in his house."

"Was that the end of it?" queried Giusippe.

"No, indeed. This person died, and his son took down the stained glass heirloom and in 1758 sold it to a committee which was at that time busy decorating St. Margaret's Chapel. Here at last it was set up and here one cannot but hope it will remain. Certainly it has earned a long rest."

"Shouldn't you think it would have been broken in all that time?" ejaculated Jean.

"One would certainly have thought so," Uncle Bob agreed. "It seemed to possess a charmed life. Most of that early glass was made by Flemish refugees who had fled to England to escape religious persecution. Some was designed for English monasteries. Houses, you know, did not have glass windows at that time but depended for protection upon oiled paper and skins. Glass was considered a luxury, and it was many, many years before window glass or table glass was in use. Rich English families bought glass dishes from galleys which, as Giusippe has told us, came laden from Venice. Sometimes this Venetian glass was mounted in gold or silver. There was, it is true, a little glass of English make, but no one thought it worth using; in fact when the stained glass windows were put into Beauchamp Chapel at Warwick it was expressly stated that no English glass was to be used."

"How did glass ever come to be made here, then?" inquired Jean.

"Well, in time more Flemish Protestants fled to England and began making stained glass at London, Stourbridge, and Newcastle-on-Tyne. In 1589 there were fifteen glass-houses in England. Then, because so much wood had been used in the iron foundries, the supply became exhausted and sea or pit coal had to be used instead. People were forced to try, in consequence, a different kind of melting pot for their glass and a new mixture of material; in this way they stumbled upon a heavy, brilliant, white crystal metal which the French called 'the most beautiful glassy substance known.' It was the pure white flint, or crystal glass, for which England has since become famous. Immediately it began to be used for all sorts of things. In 1637 the Duke of Buckingham had flint glass windows for his coach, and he had some Venetian workmen make mirrors out of it. So it went. A great many more mirrors were made, great pier glasses with beveled edges. It is said that some of those very mirrors are even now at Hampton Court. In the course of time the English became more and more skilful at glass-making, and when Queen Victoria came to the throne they were manufacturing enormous cut glass ornaments and bowls, and decorating their palaces and theaters with glass chandeliers which had myriads of heavy, sparkling prisms dangling from them. You will remember that in Venice you saw some glass chandeliers; and you may recall how delicately fashioned they were and how their twisted branches were covered with glass flowers in the center of which candles could be set. But the English chandeliers were far more massive affairs than those. And no sooner did English workmen find what they could do with this new material than they went mad over glass-making. Why, in 1851 they actually built for the first International Exhibit a Crystal Palace with a big glass fountain in it. Its builder was James Paxton, and he was knighted for doing it."

"I should think he deserved to be!" Jean said. "Who ever would have thought of making a palace of glass!"

"This one attracted much attention, I assure you," said Uncle Bob. "Later it was reconstructed at Sydenham and to this day there it stands. England now makes the finest crystal glass of any country in the world; but to-morrow I intend to take you to the British Museum and show you that in spite of all that European nations have done there were other very skilful glass-makers in the world before any of them made glass at all."

"Before the time of the Greeks and Romans—before the people who made the Naples Vase?" Jean asked.

"Yes, centuries before."

"Who were they?" demanded both Jean and Giusippe in the same breath.

"The Egyptians first; and after them the Phoenicians and Syrians. All these peoples lived where they could easily get plenty of the fine white sand necessary for glass-making. In some of the old tombs glass beads, cups, drinking-vessels, and curiously shaped vials have been found, many of them very beautiful in color. Some of this color is due to the action of the soil and the atmosphere, for science tells us that after glass has been buried in the earth many centuries and is then exposed to the air it begins to decay and its color often changes. We have in our museums many pieces of ancient glass which have changed color in this way and have become far more beautiful than they originally were. How these races that lived in the remote ages found out how to make glass no one knows; but certain it is that the Egyptians could fashion imitation gems, crude mosaics and various glass vessels. Later the Phoenicians improved the art and afterward, as you have seen, the Greeks and Romans took it up. There is a strange tale of how, during the reign of Tiberius, a glass-maker discovered how to make a kind of glass which would not break. It was a sort of malleable glass."

"Oh, tell us about it, please, Uncle Bob."

"Certainly, if you would like to hear. This glass-maker made a cup for the Emperor and tried a long time to get an audience at which to present his new invention. Then at last the chance came, and thinking to make himself famous the artisan contrived, as he passed the flagon to his sovereign, to drop it on the marble floor. Of course every one thought the glass was broken, and that is precisely what the glass-maker wanted them to think. He picked it up, smoothed out with his hammer the dent made in its side, and passed it once more expecting to receive praise for his wonderful deed. Tiberius eyed him silently. Then he asked; 'Does any one else know how to make glass like this?'

"'No one,' answered the glass-maker.

"'Off with his head at once!' cried the enraged monarch. 'If glass dishes and flasks do not break they will soon become as valuable as my gold and silver ones!'

"Despite his protests the poor glass-maker was dragged off and beheaded. The rulers of those days were not very fair-minded, you see."

With so many interesting stories, and so many things to see, you may be sure that neither Jean nor Giusippe found sightseeing dull. And the next day Uncle Bob was as good as his word, and took the young people to the British Museum, where he showed them some of the old Egyptian and Graeco-Syrian glass. There were little vases, cups, and flasks of wonderful iridescent color, as well as many glass beads that had been found upon Egyptian mummies.

"Now, Uncle Bob," Jean said, after they had looked at these strange old bits of glass for some time, "you must take us to see the Portland Vase. You promised you would, you know."

"Sure enough; so I did. I should have forgotten it, too, had you not mentioned it."

Accordingly they hunted up the Gold Room where the vase stood.

Jean was very proud that she was able to point it out before she had been told which one it was.

"You see," explained she shyly, "it is so much like the Naples Vase that I recognized it right off."

It was indeed of the same dark blue transparent glass, and had on it the same sort of delicate white cameo figures.

"This vase," Mr. Cabot said, "was found about the middle of the sixteenth century enclosed in a marble sarcophagus in an underground chamber which was located two and a half miles out of Rome. It was taken to the Barbarini Palace, but later the princess of that noble family, wishing to raise money, sold it to Sir William Hamilton, who chanced to be at that time the English ambassador to Naples. From him it passed to the Duchess of Portland, and at her death was sold at auction to the new Duke of Portland. That is the way it got its name. Now the Duke, desirous of putting his precious purchase in a safe place, and also wishing to allow others to enjoy it, lent it to the British Museum. Imagine his horror and that of the Museum authorities when in 1845 a lunatic named Lloyd, who saw it, viciously smashed it to pieces."

His hearers gasped.

"To see it you would not dream that it had ever been broken, would you? Yes, it has been so carefully mended that no one could tell the difference. It was this vase which the English potter, Wedgwood, coveted so intensely that he bid a thousand pounds for it; the Duke of Portland outbid him by just twenty-nine pounds. He was, however, a generous man, and when at last the vase was his he allowed Wedgwood to copy it. This took a year's time, and even then the copy was far less beautiful than was the original. Many copies of it have been made since, but never has any one succeeded in making anything to equal the vase itself. You will see copies of it in almost all our American museums."

"I mean to see when I get home if there is a copy of it in Boston," Jean remarked.

"You will find one at the Art Museum. And now while we are here there is still that other famous vase which I mentioned once before and which I should like to have you see. It is not, perhaps, as fine as the Naples or the Portland, but it is nevertheless one celebrated the world over. Like the Naples Vase it came from Pompeii, and like the Portland Vase it has been skilfully mended. It is called the Auldjo Vase."

Uncle Bob was not long in finding where this treasure stood. It was small—not more than nine inches in height, and like the other two was of the familiar blue transparent glass with a white cameo design cut upon it. Instead of having a Grecian decoration, however, the pattern was of vines, leaves, and clusters of grapes.

"The Portland Vase, as I have already told you, was perfect when it was unearthed," Mr. Cabot said. "And the Naples Vase you will remember was also whole except that its base, or foot, which was probably of gold, was missing. But the Auldjo Vase was in pieces, and it was only a single one of these fragments that was bequeathed to the British Museum by Miss Auldjo. Now when the Museum committee saw this single piece nothing would do but they must have the others. They therefore bought the rest, had the vase mended, and set it up here where people can see it. It cost a great deal of money to purchase it."

"I think it is splendid of museums and of rich people to buy such things and put them where every one can look at them!" exclaimed Jean. "None of us could afford to and if those who owned them just kept them in their own houses we should never see them at all."

"Yes. Remember that, too, in this day when there are so many persons who begrudge the rich their fortunes. Remember if there were not individuals in the world who possessed fortunes the poor would have far less opportunity to see art treasures of every sort. And that is one way in which those who are rich and generous can serve their country. There are many different methods of being a good citizen, you see."

Mr. Cabot took out his watch and glanced at it thoughtfully.

"I think we shall have time to see just one thing more, and then we must go back to the hotel. We have examined all kinds of glass objects—so many, in fact, that it would seem as if there was no other purpose for which glass could be used. And yet I can show you something of which, I will wager, you have not thought."

"What is it?" questioned the two young people breathlessly.

Full of curiosity, Uncle Bob led them through several corridors until he came to a large room that they had not visited. He conducted them to its farther end and paused before a large sand glass.

"Before the days of clocks and watches," he began, "such glasses as these were much in use for telling the time. Throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries they had them in almost all the churches, that the officiating clergyman might be able to measure the length of his sermon."

Jean laughed.

"I wish they had them now," she declared mischievously.

"Sometimes I do," smiled Uncle Bob. "It is said the glasses were originally invented in Egypt. Wherever they came from, they certainly were a great convenience to those who had no other means of telling the time. Charlemagne, I have read, had a sand glass so large that it needed to be turned only once in twelve hours. Fancy how large it must have been. At the South Kensington Museum is a set of four large sand glasses evidently made to go together. Of course you have seen, even in our day, hour, quarter-hour, and minute glasses."

"I used to practice by an hour glass," Jean replied quickly. "At least it was a quarter-of-an-hour glass, and I had to turn it four times."

"It would be strange not to have clocks and watches, wouldn't it?" reflected Giusippe as they walked back to the hotel.

"I guess it would!" Hannah returned emphatically. "The meals would never be on time."

"One advantage in that, my good Hannah, would be that nobody would ever be scolded because he was late," retorted Mr. Cabot humorously.

The three weeks allotted for the London visit passed only too quickly, and surprisingly soon came the day when the travelers found themselves aboard ship and homeward bound.

Perhaps after all they were not altogether sorry, for despite the marvels of the old world there is no place like home. Hannah was eager to open the Boston house and air it; Jean rejoiced that each throb of the engine brought her nearer to her beloved doggie; Uncle Bob's fingers itched to be setting in place the Italian marbles he had ordered for the new house; and Giusippe waited almost with bated breath for his first sight of America, the country of his dreams.

But a great surprise was in store for every one of these persons as the mighty steamer left her moorings and put out of Liverpool harbor.

Across the deck came a vision, an apparition so unexpected that Jean and Giusippe cried out, and even Uncle Bob muttered to himself something which nobody could hear. The figure was that of a girl—a girl with wind-tossed hair who, with head thrown back, stopped a moment and looked full into the sunset.

It was Miss Ethel Cartright of New York, Giusippe's beautiful lady of Venice!



CHAPTER VII

AMERICA ONCE MORE

The voyage from Liverpool to Boston was thoroughly interesting to Giusippe. In the first place there was the wonder of the great blue sea—a sea so vast that the Italian boy, who had never before ventured beyond the canals of the Adriatic, was bewildered when day after day the giant ship plowed onward and still, despite her speed, failed to reach the land. Sunlight flooded the water, twilight settled into darkness, and yet on every hand tossed that mighty expanse of waves. Would a haven ever be reached, the lad asked himself; and how, amid that pathless ocean, could the captain be so sure that eventually he would make the port for which he was aiming? It was all wonderful.

Fortunately the crossing was a smooth one, and accordingly every moment of the voyage was a delight. What happy days our travelers passed together! Miss Cartright was the jolliest of companions. She dressed dolls for Jean—dressed them in such gowns as never were seen, dainty French little frocks which converted the plainest china creature into a wee Parisian; she read aloud; she told stories; she played games. Hannah surrendered unconditionally when, one morning after they had been comparing notes on housekeeping, the fact leaked out that Miss Cartright's mother had been a New Englander. That was enough!

"She has had the proper sort of bringing up," remarked Hannah, with a sigh of satisfaction. "She knows exactly how to pack away blankets and how to clean house as it should be done. She is a very unusual young woman!"

Coming from Hannah such praise was phenomenal.

Mr. Cabot seemed to think, too, that Miss Cartright possessed many virtues.

At any rate he enjoyed talking with her, and every evening when the full moon touched with iridescent beauty the wide, pulsing sea he would tuck the girl into her steamer chair and the two would stay up on deck until the clear golden ball of light had climbed high into the heaven.

So passed the voyage.

Then as America came nearer Giusippe witnessed all the strange sights that heralded the approach to the new continent; he saw the lights dotting the coast; he watched steamers which were outward bound for the old world he had left behind; he strained his eyes to catch, through a telescope, the murky outlines of the land.

"Here is still another use to which glass is put, Giusippe," said Mr. Cabot indicating with a gesture the red flash-light of a beacon far against the horizon. "Without the powerful reflectors, lenses, and prisms which are in use in our lighthouses many a vessel would be wrecked. For not only must a lighthouse have a strong light; it must also have a means of throwing that light out, and thereby increasing its effectiveness. Scientists have discovered just how to arrange prisms, lenses, and reflectors so the light will travel to the farthest possible distance. At Navasink, on the highlands south of New York harbor, stands the most powerful coast light in the United States. It equals about sixty million candle-power, and its beam can be seen seventy nautical miles away. The carrying of the light to such a tremendous distance is due to the strong reflectors employed in conjunction with the light itself. The largest lens, however, under control of the United States is on the headlands of the Hawaiian Islands. This is eight and three-quarters feet in diameter and is made from the most carefully polished glass. And by the way, among other uses that science makes of glass are telescopes, microscopes, and field-glasses, which are all constructed from flawlessly ground lenses. Often it takes a whole year, and sometimes even longer, to polish a large telescope lens. Without this magnifying agency we should have no astronomy, and fewer scientific discoveries than we now have. The glasses people wear all have to be ground and polished in much the same fashion; opera glasses, magic lanterns, and every contrivance for bringing distant objects nearer or making them larger are dependent for their power upon glass lenses."

"Even when making glass I never dreamed it could be used for so many different purposes," answered Giusippe.

"I wish we had counted up, as we went along, how many things it is used for," Jean put in.

"We might have done so, only I am afraid you would have become very tired had we attempted it," laughed Uncle Bob. "In addition to optical glass there are still other branches of science that could not go on without glass in its various forms. Take, for instance, electricity. It would not be safe to employ this strange force without the protection of glass barriers to hedge in its dangerous current. Glass, as you probably know, is a non-conductor of electricity, and whenever we wish to confine its power and prevent it from doing harm we place a layer of glass between it and the thing to be protected. The glass checks the progress of the current. In all chemical laboratories, too, no end of glass test-tubes, thermometers, and crucibles are in demand for furthering research work. Science would be greatly hampered in its usefulness had it not recourse to glass in its manifold forms."

"What a wonderful material it is!" ejaculated Jean. "I never shall see anything made of glass again without thinking of all it does for us."

"Be grateful, too, Jean, to the men who have discovered how to use it," replied Mr. Cabot gravely. "Certainly our mariners many a time owe their safety to just such warning beacons as the one ahead. We must ask the captain what light that is. Just think—to-morrow morning we shall wake up in Boston harbor and be at home again."

A hush fell on the party.

"I shall be dreadfully sorry to have Miss Cartright leave us and go to New York; sha'n't you, Uncle Bob?" said Jean at last, slipping her hand into that of the older woman who stood beside her. "Wouldn't it be nice, Miss Cartright, if you lived in Boston? Then I'd see you all the time—at least I would when I wasn't in Pittsburgh, and then Uncle Bob could see you, and that would be almost as good."

"Almost," echoed Uncle Bob.

"But you are coming to New York to see me some time, Jean dear," the girl said with her eyes far on the horizon. "You know your uncle has promised that when you go to Pittsburgh both you and Giusippe are to stop and visit me for a few days."

"Yes, I have not forgotten; it will be lovely, too," replied Jean. "Still that is not like having you live where you can dress dolls all the time. Why don't you move to Boston? I am sure you would like it. We have the loveliest squirrels on the Common!"

Everybody laughed.

"I have been trying to tell Miss Cartright what a very nice place Boston is to live in," added Mr. Cabot softly.

"Well, we all will keep on telling her, and then maybe she'll be convinced," Jean declared.

So they parted for the night.

With the morning came the bustle and confusion of landing. Much of Uncle Bob's time was taken up with the inspection of trunks, and with helping Giusippe sign papers and answer the questions necessary for his admission to the United States. Then came the parting. They bade a hurried good-bye to Miss Cartright, whom Uncle Bob was to put aboard the New York train, and into a cab bundled Hannah, Giusippe, and Jean, in which equipage, almost smothered in luggage, they were rolled off to Beacon Hill.

Nothing could exceed Giusippe's interest in these first glimpses of the new country to which he had come. For the next few weeks he went about as if in a trance, struggling to adjust himself to life in an American city. How different it was from his beloved Venice! How sharp the September days with their early frost! How he missed the golden warmth of the sunny Adriatic and the familiar sights of home! During his journey through France and England the constant change of travel had carried with it sufficient excitement to keep him from being homesick; but now that he was settled for a time in Boston he got his first taste of what life in the United States was to be like. Not that he was disappointed; it was only that he felt such a stranger to all about him. The automobiles, subways, elevated roads, all confused his brain, and the dusty streets made his throat smart with dryness.

Daily, however, he became more and more accustomed to his surroundings, and when at last he ventured out alone and discovered that he could find his way back again his courage rose. Then he began going on errands for Hannah, and was proud and glad to be of use. He accompanied Uncle Bob to his office and arrived home alone in safety. Gradually the strangeness of his new home wore away. Every novel sight he beheld, every custom which was surprising to him, everything that he did not understand he asked a score of questions about. It was why, why, why, from morning until night. His questions, fortunately, were intelligent ones, and as he remembered with accuracy the answers given him and applied the knowledge thus gained to future conditions he made amazing headway in becoming Americanized. He got books and read them; he visited the churches, Library, and Art Museum. And when he saw how much of its beauty the New World had borrowed from the Old he no longer felt cut off from his Italian home.

Uncle Bob, in the meantime, had been forced to plunge so deeply into business that he had had little opportunity to aid his protege in these explorations. But one Saturday noon he came home and announced that he was to treat himself to a half holiday.

"I am not going back to the office to-day," he declared. "Instead I intend to carry off you two young persons and show you something very beautiful, the like of which you will see nowhere else in all the world."

"What is it?" cried Jean and Giusippe.

"Oh, I'm not telling. Just you be ready directly after luncheon to go with me to Cambridge."

"Cambridge! Oh, I know. It is the University, Mr. Cabot. It is Harvard!" exclaimed Giusippe, very proud of his knowledge.

"Not quite," Mr. Cabot said, shaking his head, "although, being a Harvard man, I naturally feel that the equal of my Alma Mater cannot be found elsewhere. But you are on the right track. It is something which is out at Harvard. Guess again."

"I don't know," confessed Giusippe.

"Well, you may be excused because you have not been in this country long enough to be acquainted with all its marvels. But Jean should know. Where are you, young lady? You at least should be able to tell what treasures America possesses."

"I am afraid I can't."

"Then we must excuse you also; you are so young. I see plainly that we must appeal to Hannah. She who is ever extolling Boston can of course tell us what it is that Harvard University possesses which is unsurpassed in any other part of the world."

Hannah looked chagrined.

"You do not know?" went on Uncle Bob teasingly. "Oh, for shame! And you such an ardent Bostonian! Well, so far as I can see there is nothing for it but for me to take you all three to Cambridge as fast as ever we can get there. Such ignorance is deplorable."

You may be very sure that during the ride out from the city every means was employed to get Uncle Bob to tell what particular wonder he was to display. At last, driven to desperation by Jean's persistent questions, he answered:

"I will tell you just one fact. The things we are going to see are made of glass."

"Glass! But we have already seen everything that ever could be made from glass, Uncle Bob," cried Jean in dismay.

"No, we haven't."

"Is it stained glass windows?"

"No."

"Mosaics?"

"No."

"A telescope?"

"No."

"What is it, Uncle Bob?"

"Never you mind. You would never guess if you guessed a lifetime. You better give it up," was Mr. Cabot's smiling answer.

Cambridge was soon reached, and after a walk through the College Yard that Giusippe might have a peep at Holworthy, where Uncle Bob had spent his student days, the sightseers entered a quiet old brick building and were led by Mr. Cabot into a room where stood case after case of blooming flowers. There were garden blossoms of every variety, wild flowers, tropical plants, all fresh and green as if growing. And yet they were not growing; instead they lay singly or in clusters, each bloom as perfect as if just cut from the stalk.

"How beautiful! Oh, Uncle Bob, it is like a big greenhouse!" exclaimed Jean.

"This is what I brought you to see."

"But you said we were coming to see something made of glass," objected Giusippe.

"You did say so, Uncle Bob."

"Behold, even as I said!"

"Bu-u-t, these flowers are not glass. What do you mean?"

"On the contrary, my unbelieving friends, glass is precisely what they are made of. Every blossom, every leaf, every bud, every seed here is the work of an expert glass-maker."

Mr. Cabot watched their faces, enjoying their incredulity.

"Glass!"

"Even so. Shall I tell you about it?"

"Yes! Yes!"

"This collection of flowers is called the Ware Collection, the name being bestowed out of compliment to Mrs. and Miss Ware, who generously donated much of the money for which to pay for it. Sometimes, too, it is known as the Blaschka Collection of Glass Flower Models, for the making was done by Leopold Blaschka and his son Rudolph, both of whom were Bohemians. It happened that several years ago Harvard University wished to equip its Botanical Department with flower specimens which might be used for study by the students. The question at once arose how this was to be done. Real flowers would of course fade, and wax flowers would melt or break. What could be used? There seemed to be no such thing as imperishable flowers."

Mr. Cabot paused a moment while the others waited expectantly.

"There were, however, in the Zooelogical Department some wonderfully accurate glass models of animals made by a Bohemian scientist named Blaschka, who was a rather remarkable combination of scholar and glass-maker. Accordingly when it became necessary to have fadeless flowers one of the professors wondered if this same Bohemian could not reproduce them. So he set out for Blaschka's home at Hosterwirtz, near Dresden, to see."

"Did he have to go way to Germany to find out?"

"Yes, because in the first place he did not know that Blaschka could make flowers at all; and if he could he was not certain that he could make them perfectly enough to render them satisfactory for such a purpose. So he traveled to Germany and found the house where lived the famous glass-maker; and it was while waiting alone in the parlor that he saw on a shelf a vase containing what seemed to be a very beautiful fresh orchid."

"It was made of glass!" Jean declared, leaping at the truth.

"Yes; and it was so perfect that the Harvard professor could hardly believe his eyes. At that moment the scientist entered. He confessed that he had made the flower for his wife; indeed, he had made many glass orchids—one collection of some sixty varieties which had been ordered by Prince Camille de Rohan, but which had later been destroyed when the Natural History Museum at Liege had been burned. Since then, Blaschka explained, he had given all his attention to making models of animals. He said that his son Rudolph helped him, and that they two alone knew how the work was done. It was their knowledge of zooelogy and of botany added to their skill at glass-making which enabled them to turn out such correct copies of real objects."

"Of course the Harvard professor was delighted," Jean ventured.

"Indeed he was! Before he left he won a promise from Blaschka and his son to send to Cambridge a few flowers to serve as specimens of what they could do. Now you may fancy the rage of the Harvard authorities when on the arrival of the cases of flowers they found that almost all of them had been broken to bits in the New York Custom House. There was, however, enough left of the consignment to give to the Cambridge professors the assurance that the two Bohemians were well equal to the task demanded of them. Those who saw the shattered blossoms were most enthusiastic, and Mrs. Ware and her daughter told the authorities to order a limited number as a gift to the University. This second lot came safely and were so beautiful that Harvard at once arranged that the two Blaschkas send over to America all the flowers they could make for the next ten years."

"My!"

"Yes, that seems a great many, doesn't it?" Mr. Cabot assented, nodding to Jean. "But after all, it was not so tremendous as it sounds. You see Harvard needed a copy of every American flower, plant, and fruit. The making of them would take a great deal of time. Of course unless the collection was complete it would be of little use to students. So the Blaschkas began their work, and for a few years averaged a hundred sets of flowers a year. Then the father died and Rudolph was left to finish the work alone. You remember I told you that in true mediaeval fashion they had kept the secret of their art to themselves; as a consequence there now was no one to aid the son in his undertaking. Twice he came to our country to get copies of flowers from which to work, toiling bravely on in order to finish the task his father had begun. He said he considered it a sort of monument or memorial to the elder man's genius. There you have the story," concluded Mr. Cabot. "No other such collection exists anywhere else in the world. Even with a microscope it is impossible to distinguish between the real flower and the glass copy."

"How were they made?" Giusippe demanded. "Was the glass blown?"

"No; the flowers were modeled. That is all I can tell you. The brittle glass was in some way made plastic so it could be shaped by hand or by instruments. Some of the coloring was put on while the material was hot; some while it was cooling; and some after it was cold. It all depended upon the result desired. But one thing is evident—the Blaschkas worked very quickly and with marvelous scientific accuracy."

"It is simply wonderful," said Giusippe. "Even at Murano there is nothing to equal this."

"I thought you, who knew so much of glass-making, would appreciate what such a collection represents in knowledge, toil, and skill. Furthermore it is beautiful, and for that reason alone is well worth seeing," answered Mr. Cabot.

"It is wonderful!" repeated the Italian lad.

All the way home the young Venetian was peculiarly silent. His national pride had received a blow. Bohemia had surpassed Venice at its own trade, the art of glass-making!



CHAPTER VIII

JEAN THREATENS TO STEAL GIUSIPPE'S TRADE

It was the next morning while Mr. Cabot and Giusippe were still discussing the Blaschka glass flowers that the Italian lad remarked:

"I have wondered and wondered ever since we went out to Harvard how those fragile flower models were annealed without breaking. It must have been very difficult."

"What is annealing?" inquired Jean, holding at arm's length a doll's hat and straightening a feather at one side of it.

"Annealing? Why, the gradual cooling of the glass after it has been heated."

"What do they heat it for?"

"Don't you know how glass is made?" Giusippe asked in surprise.

Jean shook her head.

"No. How should I?"

"Why—but I thought every one knew that!"

"I don't see why. How could a girl know about the work you men do unless you take the trouble to tell her?" Jean dimpled. "All through Europe you and Uncle Bob have talked glass, glass, glass—nothing but glass, and as you both seemed to understand what you were talking about I did not like to interrupt and ask questions; but I had no more idea than the man in the moon what you meant sometimes."

"Do you mean to say you know nothing at all about the process of glass-making, Jean?" asked Mr. Cabot.

"Not a thing."

"Well, well, well! You have been a very patient little lady, that is all I can say. Giusippe and I have been both rude and remiss, haven't we, Giusippe? I thought of course you understood; and yet it is not at all strange that you did not. As you say, how could you? Why didn't you ask us, dear?"

"Oh, I didn't like to. I hate to seem stupid and be a bother."

"You are neither of those things, dear child. Is she, Giusippe?"

"I should say not."

"Well then, if it is all the same to you, I do wish somebody would tell me whether glass is dug up out of the earth or is made of things mixed together like a pudding," said Jean.

Both Giusippe and Uncle Bob laughed.

"The pudding idea is the nearer correct. Glass is made from ingredients which are mixed together, boiled, baked, and set away to cool. Isn't that about it, Giusippe?"

Giusippe nodded.

"I think the best remedy we can administer to this young lady, as well as the most fitting penance for our own discourtesy to her, is to escort her through a glass factory and let her, with her own eyes, behold the process. What do you say, Giusippe?"

"A capital idea, senor. Then I, too, should have the chance to visit an American factory and compare the process you use here with our Italian method. I should like it above everything else."

"That is precisely what we will do then," declared Mr. Cabot. "On my first leisure day we will go, and in the meantime I will hunt up the location of the most satisfactory and nearest glass works."

Not more than a week passed before Uncle Bob fulfilled his promise.

"Make yourselves ready, oh ye glass-makers," said he one morning at breakfast. "I find after telephoning to the office that I am not needed to-day; therefore, the moment we have swallowed these estimable griddle cakes of Hannah's we will hie us forth to instruct Jean in the art of manufacturing vases, bottles, tumblers and the various sorts of glassware."

The two young people greeted the suggestion with pleasure.

"Can you really get away to-day, Uncle Bob?" cried Jean. "What fun we'll have!"

"I think it will be fun. We must, however, make Giusippe captain of the expedition for he is the one who really knows glass-making from beginning to end, and can answer all our questions."

"I think I might in Murano," returned the Venetian modestly, "but that is no sign that I can do it here; your process may differ from the one we use at home."

"Oh, I do not believe so—at least, not in essentials," Mr. Cabot answered.

So they started out, and before they had proceeded any distance at all they got into a spirited debate over the tiny lights of glass set in the top of the electric car. The panes were of ground glass dotted with an all-over pattern of small stars which had been left transparent.

"How did they make the stars on that glass?" was Jean's innocent question. "Did they scratch off the thick surface and leave the design of clear glass?"

"No indeed," Mr. Cabot replied. "On the contrary they started with the stars and then made the background cloudy."

"But I don't see how they could."

"Do you, Giusippe?"

"I am afraid not, senor."

"Good! At last there is one fact about glass-making that I can impart to you. This sort of glass is known as sand-blast glass, and the art of making it, they say, chanced to be discovered near the seashore. It was found that when the strong winds rose and blew the sand against glass window-panes of the houses the small particles, being sharp, cut into the glass surface, and before long wore it to a cloudy white through which it was impossible to see out. Often the glass fronts of lighthouses were injured in this way and the lights dimmed. Finally some man came along who said: 'See here! Why not turn this grinding effect of the sand to some purpose? Why not apply it to transparent glass and make it frosted so one can get light but not see through it? Often such glass would be a convenience.' Therefore this inventor set his brain to the task. Strong currents or streams of sand were directed against a clear glass surface with such force that they cut and ground it until it was no longer transparent. They called the product thus made sand-blast glass. Later they improved upon it by laying a stencil over it so that a desired design was covered and remained protected from the sand blast. The result was a pattern such as you see—clear figures set in a background of clouded glass."

"How interesting!"

"Yes, isn't it? As is true of so many other of our most clever inventions nature first showed man the path. Ground glass in its modified forms is used for many purposes now; and yet I venture to say few persons know how it came to be discovered."

Just at this point the car stopped with a sudden jerk, and beckoning Jean and Giusippe to follow, Mr. Cabot got out and entered a large brick building that stood close at hand. Evidently he was expected, for a man came forward to greet him.

"Mr. Cabot?" he asked.

"Yes. I received your note this morning, so I brought my young charges out at once. It is very good of you to allow us to go through the factory."

"We are always glad to see visitors. I will put you in the hands of one of our foremen who will take you about and tell you everything you may want to know."

He touched a bell.

"Show Mr. Cabot and his friends down-stairs," said he to the boy who answered his call, "and introduce them to Mr. Wyman. Tell him he is to conduct them over the works."

Mr. Wyman welcomed them cordially.

"We see many visitors here, sir," said he, "and are always glad to have them come. Although glass-making is an old story to us scarce a day passes that some one does not visit us to whom the process is entirely new; and it certainly is interesting if a person has never seen it. Suppose we begin at the very beginning. In this bin, or trough, you will see the mixture or batch of which the glass is made. It is composed of red lead and the finest of white beach sand. The lead is what gives the inside of the trough its vermilion color. The sand comes from abroad, and before it can be used it must be sifted and sifted through a series of closely woven cloths until it is smooth and fine as powder. Before we put the mixture into the melting pots we heat it to a given temperature so that it will be less likely to chill the clay pots and break them."

"Do you really make glass by melting up that stuff?" asked Jean incredulously.

The man smiled.

"But isn't it all red?"

"The red comes out in the melting. We have to be very careful, however, in weighing out the ingredients, for much of our success depends on the accurate proportions of the materials combined in the batch. Of course the chemical composition differs some for different sorts of glass. It all depends on what kind of glass is to be made. Then too the conditions of the furnaces vary at times, the draughts being better at some seasons than at others. We take a test or proof of every fresh melt, and you would be surprised to see how little these differ. Careful mixing of the raw materials is the first important item of successful glass-making; the second is the fusion by heat of the materials."

"The batch is next melted, Jean," explained Giusippe, as they followed Mr. Wyman into the great brick-paved room where the furnaces were.

Here indeed was a picturesque scene. Numberless men were hurrying hither and thither, some whirling in the air glowing masses of molten glass; others standing before the furnace doors gathering balls of it on the end of long iron blow-pipes which were from six to nine feet in length. Everybody was scurrying. As soon as a ball of red-hot glass had been collected on the end of a blow-pipe it was rushed off to the blower before it cooled. In and out of the throng of moving workmen young boys, or carriers, swung along bearing to the annealing ovens on charred wooden trays or forks newly completed vases or pitchers.

Jean glanced about, fascinated by the bustling crowd.

"Here are the furnaces," the foreman said. "Each one has twelve openings and is built with a low dome to keep in the heat. The flues or chimneys are in the sides of the furnace. Within, and just beneath the openings or working-holes, stand the great clay pots of molten batch. These pots are made for us from New Jersey clay; formerly we used to make them ourselves, but it was a great deal of trouble, and we now find it simpler to buy them. They vary in cost from thirty to seventy-five dollars, according to their size."

"And they are liable to break the first time they are used," whispered Giusippe in a jesting undertone.

Mr. Wyman caught his words.

"Ah, you know something of glass-making then, my young man?"

"A little."

"The pots are, as you say, a great lottery. Sometimes one will be in constant use three months or longer, and do good service; on the other hand a pot may break the first time using and let all the melt into the furnace. Then we have a lively time, I can tell you, ladling it out, and taking care in the meantime that none of the other pots are upset."

Giusippe nodded appreciatively.

Many a day just such a catastrophe had occurred when he had been working; vividly he recalled how all the men had been forced to come to the rescue.

"Are the pots filled to the top with batch?" asked Mr. Cabot.

"Yes, we charge them pretty solid; but the raw material loses bulk in melting, so they have to be filled in as the melt settles. At the end of ten or twelve hours we have a refilling or topping out, as we call it; usually this is enough. The first fill must become fluid and its gases must escape before any more material is added; we also have to be sure when we put the pots in the furnace that the temperature is high enough to melt the batch immediately, or the glass will go bad."

"What do you use for fuel?"

"Crude oil. In the West they can get natural gas, and there they often melt the batch in tanks instead of pots. But we find crude oil quite satisfactory. You can readily understand that we cannot burn any fuel that gives off a waste product such as coal dust or cinders, because if we did such matter would get into the melt and speck the glass, causing it to be imperfect. Much of the work done by the earliest glass-makers was specked in this way, and in fact the genuineness of old glass is sometimes determined from these very imperfections."

"I see," Mr. Cabot nodded.

"After the melt is in a fluid state it throws to the top, provided the heat is sufficient, many impurities such as bubbles and scum. These are, of course, skimmed off—a process called plaining. Afterward the hot material has to be cooled before it can be worked, and reduced from fluid to a thicker consistency. This we call standing off or fining."

"How long does it take to melt the batch and get it ready to use?"

"About three days. We run a relay of furnaces—three of them—and plan so that a melt will be ready to be worked every other day; in that way we keep plenty of usable material on hand."

"And then?"

"Then we are ready to go ahead and blow it. We make nothing but the better grades of blown glass here; that is, no window glass or cheap pressed ware. Of course there are some patterns, such as fluted designs and their like, which cannot be entirely fashioned by the blower; therefore these are first blown as nearly the required size as possible and are then made into the desired form by shutting them inside iron moulds and squeezing them into the proper shape. You shall see it done later on."

He now led them up to where a gatherer stood at one of the working-holes of the furnace.

"This man," explained Mr. Wyman, "is collecting on his blow-pipe enough glass to make a pitcher. He uses his judgment as to the amount necessary, but so often has he estimated it that he seldom gets either too much or too little. He will next carry it to the blower, who will blow it into a long, pear-shaped cylinder the size he wants the pitcher to be."

They followed, and with much interest watched a great Swede fill his lungs and blow into the smaller end of the iron pipe with all his strength; immediately the ball of soft, red-hot glass began to take form. With incredible speed the blower flattened its base upon a marver or table topped with sheet iron. A short iron rod or pontil was next fastened to the middle of the bottom of the pitcher in order that the blower might hold it, and after this had been done the blow-pipe was detached. The glass-maker sat in a sort of backless chair which had long, flat, metal-covered arms at either side, and as he worked he rolled the rod with its plastic material back and forth along one of these iron arms to shape it. He then took his shears and, making an incision at the middle of the back of the jug, he began to cut the top into the shape he wanted it, depending entirely on his eye for the outline. Then quick as a flash he seized a bit of round metal not unlike a beet in shape and, pressing it inside the soft glass, made the depression for the nose. All this was done in much less time than it takes to tell it. A small boy, or carrier, now bobbed up at just the proper moment and taking the pitcher on his wooden fork carried it off to a small furnace where it was reheated at the opening or "glory hole." This little furnace, Mr. Wyman said, was used only for the purpose of softening glass objects which became chilled in the modeling and began to be hard and less pliable. As soon as the boy brought the pitcher back another lad, as if calculating by magic the precise moment at which to appear, approached with a small mass of molten glass at the end of his gathering-iron. This he stuck firmly against the pitcher at the correct spot to form the base of the handle; the modeler snipped off with his shears as much of the soft glass as he thought necessary, turned it up, and in the twinkling of an eye fastened the upper end of the handle in place. Then he surveyed his handiwork an instant to make sure that it was symmetrical, straightened it just a shade with his battledore of charred wood, and passed it over to the carrier, who bore it off to be baked.

"Why do they use so much charred wood for the shaping?" inquired Jean.

"Metal things are liable to mark the glass, leaving upon it a print, scratch, or other imperfection; charred wood, when worn down, is absolutely smooth and cannot mar the material."

"Oh, yes, I see. And where have they taken the pitcher now?"

"We will follow it," replied the foreman.

Escorting them across the room he showed them a low oven or kiln. The door of it was open, and inside they could see all sorts of glassware which had just been finished.

"Here is where your pitcher will remain for the next three days," said he. "We build a fire, put the completed glass in the oven, and leave it there until the fire goes out and the oven gradually cools; we call the process annealing. It prevents the glass from breaking when exposed to friction or to the atmosphere. Glass is very brittle, and extremely sensitive to heat and cold. If it were not annealed it would not be strong, and would snap to pieces the moment it came in contact with the outer air. Now it is very difficult to anneal glass, the trouble being that all hollow ware is one temperature on the inside and another on the outside. Hence, when heated, the inside takes longer to cool. Any current of cold air that strikes it will fracture it. So, as you can readily see, an annealing kiln or oven must be arranged in such a way that it will allow the two surfaces to cool simultaneously."

"I think I understand," answered Jean. "And you say these things must stay in the kiln about three days?"

"Yes, the kiln takes about that time. It is a slow process, because we have practically no way of regulating its heat. A lehr does the work much quicker. Over here you will see one. It is a long arch or oven open at both ends. The glassware travels in iron pans along a moving surface from the hot oven, or receiving end, to the cool, or discharging end. The temperature of the lehr can be scientifically tested and regulated, and this is very necessary, because the heavy glass intended for cutting can stand a greater heat than can ordinary hollow ware such as vials and table glass. We regulate the oven according to what we are annealing in it. It does not take so long to anneal glass in a lehr as in a kiln, and therefore in many factories only lehrs are used. If you will come around to the cool end you can see some of the finished pieces being taken out. Each object is made by a certain set or gang of workmen—a shop, we call it. The work of each shop when taken from the lehr is put in a box by itself and is then counted up, and the men paid according to the number of perfect objects finished. It is piece work. For instance, one shop makes only pitchers, another wine-glasses, another vases, and so on. Every group has its specialty, and each workman in the team understands exactly what his part is in the whole. The common interest of turning out as many perfect pieces as possible spurs each man to work as rapidly, well, and helpfully as he can."

"Just like a football squad, Uncle Bob," laughed Jean.

"Exactly," nodded Mr. Wyman. "After the finished glass is taken from the kiln or lehr it goes to the examining room, where girls dip it in clear water and hold it to the light to test it for imperfections; then it is sorted, packed, and shipped."

"And vases, sugar-bowls, tumblers, and most of the hollow glassware is made in the same way?" inquired Mr. Cabot.

"Yes, practically so. The general scheme is the same. As I told you, there are some difficult designs which must be squeezed into shape in moulds. These are of iron, and for the convenience of the blowers are set in holes in the floor. They are made in two parts joined by a hinge. The molten glass is blown to the approximate size and then a boy shuts it inside the mould and the blower blows into it until it has entirely filled out the mould in which it is confined. When released it is shaped to the form required."



"But doesn't it stick to the mould?"

"Seldom. The moulds are painted over on the inside with a preparation which prevents the glass from sticking."

"Do you cut any glass here?"

"Oh, yes. Cut glass is made from the heavier crystal variety. The design is roughly outlined upon it in white and then the cutter places the part to be cut against an emery-wheel, which grinds out the grooves and figures and makes the pattern. Just above each cutter's revolving wheel is suspended a funnel of wet sand, and this drops at intervals upon the turning disc and cools it; otherwise it would become so hot from the friction that it could not be used. After the design has been cut on the emery-wheel all its rough edges are smoothed off on a stone of much finer grain. I can show you our glass cutters at work if you would care to see them."

"Oh, do let's see them, Uncle Bob," begged Jean.

"All right; but only for a few moments. We have already taken too much of Mr. Wyman's time, I fear. And besides, I must be back in town for luncheon," answered Mr. Cabot.

Accordingly they went on into the next room, where Jean became so fascinated by the whirring wheels and the men whose steady hands guided them that it was with difficulty she could be persuaded to leave and start for home.

"Do you think, little lady, that when you get back to Boston you can mix up some glass for us and bake it in Hannah's oven?" questioned Uncle Bob of her when they were at last in the car.

"I am not sure," replied the girl with a bright smile. "But certainly I have a much clearer idea how to do it than I had before I went out to the factory. In future when you and Giusippe talk glass-making I can at least be a bit more intelligent. I think, too, I appreciate now how wonderful it was that the Egyptians, Persians, and Syrians discovered in those far-off days how to make glass. I am not at all sure, Giusippe, that when we go to Pittsburgh I shall not steal your trade and apply to Uncle Tom for a place in his factory."

Mr. Cabot pinched her cheek playfully.

"I guess you'd better stick to dressing dolls," he said.



CHAPTER IX

A REUNION

At length all too soon for Uncle Bob and Hannah, and indeed far sooner than Jean and Giusippe had realized, October came, and the time for starting for Pittsburgh was at hand. To the young people their departure was not without its anticipations. Jean longed to see Beacon and Uncle Tom, and Giusippe burned with eagerness to take up the position his uncle had secured for him at Mr. Curtis's factory.

"How odd it is, Giusippe," Jean mused one day, "that we each have an uncle waiting for us. And besides that you have an aunt, too, haven't you? I wish I had. I'd love to have an aunt! As it is I have only Beacon."

"Maybe you'll have one some day," was Giusippe's vaguely consoling answer. "But anyway I shouldn't think you would care much. You have Miss Cartright, and she is almost as good as an aunt."

"I suppose she is something like one," admitted Jean, "only, you see, she doesn't live where I do, so I can't see her very often. Of course she has sent me nice letters since she got home to New York and sometimes she writes Uncle Bob, too; but it isn't really like seeing her. When I think that the day after to-morrow she is to meet us in New York it seems too good to be true. Won't it be fun? I love Miss Cartright! Do you suppose she looks just the same as she did when she was with us on the steamer?"

"I suppose so. Your uncle said she did when he saw her in New York."

"I know it. He has had lots of chances to see her because he has been over there so many times on business trips. I wish we had. But we shall see her now, anyway. Oh, I am so glad!" Jean whirled enthusiastically round the room. "I think we are to have a pretty nice visit in New York if we do all the things Uncle Bob is planning to. He says he is going to take us to the studio of one of his friends and show us how stained glass windows are made. I shall like to see that, sha'n't you?"

So the boy and girl chattered on little dreaming, in the delight of the pleasures in store for them, how lonely at heart were Mr. Cabot and poor Hannah.

"If it wasn't that Jean is coming back in the spring I should be completely inconsolable," lamented Hannah. "I cannot bear to part with the child. But she will surely be back again, won't she, Mr. Bob? There won't be any other plan made? You'll certainly insist that Mr. Curtis send her home to us in May, won't you?"

"There, there, Hannah, dry your eyes. Of course Jean will be back. I have no more mind to lose her than you have. No one knows how I love that child! I'd no more let her leave my home than I would cut off my right hand," was Mr. Cabot's vehement reply.

"The boy is a splendid fellow, too," Hannah went on. "He has the makings of a fine man, Mr. Bob."

"Yes. Giusippe is a very unusual lad. As time goes on I am more and more convinced that we made no mistake in bringing him to America. I am sure that we are adding a good citizen to the country. I have a feeling that Mr. Curtis will be much interested in him."

"I wish he'd be sufficiently interested to adopt him and send Jean home to us," suggested Hannah, smoothing out the edge of an apron she was hemming.

"I am afraid such a scheme as that would be too good to be true," laughed Mr. Cabot. "If, however, he helps place Giusippe in a fine business position I shall be satisfied. That is all I shall ask."

Nevertheless, brave as Uncle Bob tried to be, he was very solemn the morning he saw the trunks brought down-stairs and strapped on the back of the waiting cab.

"Cheer up, Hannah!" he called from the sidewalk. "Why, bless my soul, if you're not crying! Come, come, this will never do! May will be here before you know it, and the child will be back again. She is only going on a visit—remember that. Her home is here. Say good-bye to Hannah, you young scamps. She somehow seems to have the notion you are never to return. Tell her she is not to get off so easily. Before many moons she will find you two in the pantry raiding the cookie jar just as you robbed it yesterday—you bandits!"

And so with a gaiety he did not feel Mr. Cabot hustled his charges into the carriage and slammed the door.

The trip to New York was a blur of new impressions and the city itself, when they reached it, another blur—a confusion of madly rushing throngs; giant sky-scrapers; racing taxicabs; and clanging bells. To the children it seemed a maelstrom of horror. Their one thought was to get safely out of the crowd, have something to eat, and go to bed. But with the morning light New York took on quite a different aspect. It proved to be not such a bad place after all. The solitary fact that it harbored Miss Cartright was quite enough to redeem it in their eyes. Then there was so much to see which was new and strange! Directly after breakfast Uncle Bob took them out for a stroll and after a walk in the brisk air he led them into Tiffany's.

"While we have time and are right here I want to show you one of the most wonderful glass products of America," said he. "It is called Favril glass and is made at Coronna, Long Island. Just how, I do not know. The process is a secret one. You remember, don't you, the marvelous iridescent colors of the ancient Egyptian glass we saw in the British Museum? And you recall how exquisite was the turquoise glaze on some of the old pieces? Well, the Tiffany people have tried to imitate that, and so well have they succeeded that they have received many medals in recognition of their skill. Museums all over the world from Tokio to Christiania have purchased collections of the glass that it may be exhibited and enjoyed by young and old. I am going to show you some of it now."

Up in an elevator they sped, and alighting at one of the upper floors Uncle Bob led the way into a room rich with silken hangings and rare oriental rugs; all about this room were vases, plates, lamp-shades, and ornaments of beautiful hues. There were great golden glass bowls glinting with elusive lights of violet, blue, and yellow; there were vases opalescent with burning flecks of orange and copper; there were green glass plates and globes which shaded into tones of blue as delicate as mother-of-pearl.

"Oh!" sighed Jean rapturously, "I never saw anything so lovely! Look at these plates, Uncle Bob, do look at them. How ever did they get the color? It is like a sunset."

"The Tiffanys, like Blaschka the flower modeler, are not telling the world how they get their results. Rest assured, however, many and many hours must have been spent in experiments before such artistic products could be obtained."

"Think of the struggles with color and with firing," Giusippe murmured.

"And the pieces that must have been spoiled!" put in Jean.

"But think of the triumph of at last taking from the lehrs such gems as these! The results which air, soil, and age have by chance produced in the ancient Egyptian and Graeco-Syrian glass the Tiffanys have created in a modern ware. It is a great achievement, and a royal contribution to the art of the world."

The children would have been glad to linger for a much longer time in the vast shop had not the chime of a clock warned them that the noon hour, when they were to meet Miss Cartright, was approaching. She had promised to lunch with them all at the Holland House.

Yes, she looked just the same, "only prettier," Jean whispered to Giusippe. Certainly there was an added glow of beauty on her cheek and a new sweetness in her smile. How glad she was to see them! And how glad, glad, glad they were to see her. Miraculously from somewhere Uncle Bob produced a great bunch of violets which she fastened in her gown and then amid a confusion of merry chatter and laughter they went in to luncheon.

It was indeed a royal luncheon!

Uncle Bob seemed inclined to order everything on the menu, and it was not until Miss Cartright protested that not only the young people but she herself would be ill, that he was to be stayed. And what a joke it was when the waiter bent down and asked her if both her son and daughter would take some of the hot chocolate!

Oh, it was a jolly luncheon!

And after it was finished and they all had declared that not until next Thanksgiving could they think of eating anything more, off they shot in a taxicab to the studio of Uncle Bob's friend, Mr. Norcross, who had promised over the telephone to show them the window he was making for a church in Chicago.

They found the studio at the top of one of New York's high buildings, and it was flooded with light from the west and south; on one side of the room was an open space large enough to allow an immense stained glass window to be set up.

Mr. Norcross, who was an old college friend of Uncle Bob's, greeted them cordially and when Miss Cartright remarked on the airiness of his workshop he answered:

"Yes, I have plenty of air up here; of course I enjoy it, too. But air, after all, is not the important factor which I consider. My stock in trade is light. Without it I could do nothing. Through the medium of strong sunlight I must test my work, for stained glass is beautiful chiefly as the light plays through it. It is not a tapestry nor a picture—it is primarily a window. Its colors must be rich in the light but not glaring; and its design must be so thoughtfully executed that the telling figures will stand forth when there is a strong sunset, for instance, behind them."

"Of course, then, you must take care that the colors you use do not prove too powerful and overshadow your central figures," said Miss Cartright.

"Ah, you paint?"

"Yes, but not as I want to," was the wistful answer. "I do portraits. So I can readily see that your problem is a unique, and far more difficult one than mine. I have only a changeless color scheme to consider, while your colors shift with every cloud that passes across the sky."

Mr. Norcross nodded with pleasure at her instant appreciation of his difficulties.

"Have you ever seen stained glass in the making?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Neither have any of the rest of us, Norcross," put in Mr. Cabot. "That is what we came for. I have been toting these two youthful friends of mine all over the world and together we have investigated almost every known form of glass, from the Naples Vase down to an American lamp chimney."

Mr. Norcross smiled.

"So you see," Uncle Bob went on, "I wanted them to witness this phase of glass-making."

"They certainly shall. How did you chance to be so interested in the making of glass?" inquired the artist, turning to Giusippe.

"I am a Venetian, senor. For over six generations my people have been at Murano."

"Oh, then, what wonder! And that accounts for your own personal color scheme."

The artist let his eyes dwell upon the Italian's face intently: then glanced at Miss Cartright.

"I did a portrait of Giusippe," she responded quietly, "when I was in Venice a few years ago. He did not look so much like an American then."

"Modern clothing certainly does take the picturesqueness out of some of us," answered Mr. Cabot.

In the meantime Giusippe had wandered off to the distant side of the studio and now stood before a large glass panel calling excitedly:

"Is this the window you are making, senor? How beautiful! The violet light behind the woman's head, and that yellow glow on her hair—it is wonderful! And her white drapery against the background of green!"

Mr. Norcross came to his side, flushing with gratification.

"The mellow tones playing on her hair were hard to get. I spent a lot of time working at them. It isn't easy to get the results one wants when making stained glass."

"What did you do first, Mr. Norcross, when you began the window?" asked Jean timidly.

"I will show you every step I have taken in doing it if you would like to follow the process. In the first place I went to Chicago and studied the light and the setting which it was to have. Then I made this small water-color design and submitted it for approval to the persons who were ordering the window. The drawing accepted, I set about making a full-sized cartoon which I sketched in with charcoal on this heavy paper; the black lines represent the leading and the horizontal stay-bars necessary to hold the glass in place. After that I sliced up my cartoon into a multitude of small pieces from which the glass could be cut and the lead lines decided upon. All this done I went to work planning my color scheme—thinking out what dominating colors I would use and where I would place my high lights."

"And then you were ready for your glass?" inquired Mr. Cabot.

"Yes. Now selecting the glass is not alone a matter of color; it is also a problem of thickness. Sometimes a variation in tone can be obtained merely by using a bit of heavier glass in some one spot. Again the effect must be obtained by the use of paint."

"What kind of glass do you use, Mr. Norcross?" Giusippe questioned.

"What we call bottle, or Norman, glass. We get it from England, and strangely enough there is a heavy duty on it in its raw state. One can import a whole window free of duty because it is listed as an art work; but the glass out of which an art work is to be constructed costs a very high price. Odd, isn't it? As soon as I reach the point of using glass I arrange it on a large plate glass easel, using wax in the spaces where the lead is to go. Then I experiment and experiment with my colors. You probably know that in making modern stained glass a great deal of paint is used in order to get shading and degrees of color. It was toward the end of the thirteenth century that the old glass-makers began to introduce the use of paint into their windows. First came the grisaille glass, as it was called, where instead of strong reds and blues most of the window was in white painted with scroll work in which a few bits of brilliant stained glass were set like jewels. Then with the fourteenth century came those elaborate painted canopies and borders within which were the main figures of the window in stained glass. From that time on the combination of stained and painted glass was used. Accordingly we all work by that method now. So, as I say, I paint in my glass and afterward it has to be fired, all the small pieces being laid out on heavy sheets of steel covered with plaster of paris."

"Do your colors always come out as you mean to have them?" inquired Giusippe, his eyes on the artist's face.

Mr. Norcross shrugged his shoulders.

"You know, don't you, how the firing often changes the tone, and how you frequently get a color you neither intended nor desired. That is one of the tribulations of stained glass making. Another is when the cutters must trim down the glass and put the lead in place. You may not realize that there are three widths of lead from which to select; it is not always easy to choose for every part of the design the thickness which will look the best. For instance, sometimes the leading will be too strong and overwhelm the picture; again it will be too weak and render the window characterless."

"It must be a fascinating puzzle to work out," mused Miss Cartright.

"Yes; but it is also a great test of the patience."

"Were the old glass windows made in this same way, do you suppose?" asked Jean after a pause.

"I presume the old glass-makers worked along the same general plan, although they may not have followed exactly the present-day methods; certain it is, however, that they knew all the many tricks or devices for getting color effects—knew them far better than we do now. And they put endless time and thought into their work, no artist feeling it beneath his dignity to follow the humblest detail of his conception. He watched over his art-child until it got to be full-grown. This is the only way to get fine results. For, you see, there is no set rule for a glass designer to apply. Each window presents a fresh problem in the management of light and color. There is no branch of art more elusive or more difficult than this. I must be able to construct a window which will be satisfactory as a flat piece of decoration; it must be sufficiently interesting to give pleasure even when it stands in a dim light. Then presto—the sun moves round, and my window is transformed! And in the flood of light that passes through it I must still be able to find it beautiful."

"I think that I should like to learn to make stained glass," declared Giusippe, who had become so absorbed that he had moved close beside Mr. Norcross.

"Would you?"

The artist smiled down kindly at him. "In your country you have many a fine example of glass. France, too, is rich in rose windows which are the despair of our modern craftsmen. But we glass-makers are working hard and earnestly, and who knows but in time we may give to the world such glass as is at Rheims, Tours, Amiens, and Chartres."

"What sort of paint do you use?" asked Mr. Cabot as he took up a brush and idly examined it in his fingers.

"A kind of opaque enamel containing fusible material which is melted by heat and thereafter adheres to the surface of the glass. It must, however, be used carefully, as it possesses so much body that too much of it will obscure the light—the thing a stained glass window should never do. We should have many more successful windows if the people making them would only bear in mind that a window is not a picture, and should not be treated as one. For my part, I make my window a window. I join the pieces of glass frankly together, not trying to conceal the lead that holds them. I cannot say that I get the results either with colors or lights that I want to get; but I am trying, with the old masters as my ideal."

"Certainly you are a long way on the road if you can turn out a window as beautiful as this one promises to be. None of us reaches the ideal, Mr. Norcross, but in the past is the inspiration that what man has done man can do. Perhaps not now, but in the future," Miss Cartright said softly.

"I wish I might try stained glass making," Giusippe said again.

"Perhaps some time you will, my boy," answered Mr. Norcross, "and perhaps, too, your generation may succeed where mine has failed, and give to the world another Renaissance. Remember, all the great deeds haven't been done yet."



CHAPTER X

TWO UNCLES AND A NEW HOME

Uncle Tom Curtis arrived in New York toward the end of the children's visit, good-byes were said to Miss Cartright and to Uncle Bob, and within the space of a day Jean and Giusippe were amid new surroundings. Here was quite a different type of city from Boston—a city with many beautiful buildings, fine residences, and a swarm of great factories which belched black smoke up into the blue of the sky. Here, too, were Giusippe's aunt and uncle with a hearty welcome for him; and here, furthermore, was the new position which the boy had so eagerly craved in the glass works. The place given Giusippe, however, did not prove to be the one his uncle had secured for him after all; for during the journey from New York Uncle Tom Curtis had had an opportunity to study the young Italian, and the result of this better acquaintance turned out to be exactly what Uncle Bob Cabot had predicted; Uncle Tom became tremendously interested in the Venetian, and before they arrived at Pittsburgh had decided to put him in quite a different part of the works from that which he had at first intended.

"Your nephew has splendid stuff in him," explained Mr. Curtis to Giusippe's uncle. "I mean to start him further up the ladder than most of the boys who come here. We will give him every chance to rise and we'll see what use he makes of the opportunity. He is a very interesting lad."

Accordingly, while Jean struggled with French, algebra, drawing, history, and literature at the new school in which Uncle Tom had entered her and while she and Fraeulein Decker had many a combat with German, Giusippe began wrestling with the problems of plate glass making.

The factory was an immense one, covering a vast area in the manufacturing district of the city; it was a long way from the residential section where Jean lived, and as the boy and girl had become great chums they at first missed each other very much. Soon, however, the rush of work filled in the gaps of loneliness. Each was far too busy to lament the other, and since Uncle Tom invented all sorts of attractive plans whereby they could be together on Saturday afternoons and Sundays the weeks flew swiftly along. There were motor trips, visits to the museums and churches of the city, and long walks with Beacon wriggling to escape from the leash which reined him in.

Uncle Tom's home was much more formal than Uncle Bob's. It stood, one of a row of tall gray stone houses, fronting a broad avenue on which there was a great deal of driving. It had a large library and a still larger dining-room in which Jean playfully protested she knew she should get lost. But stately as the dwelling was it was not so big and formidable after all if once you got upstairs; on the second floor were Uncle Tom's rooms and a dainty little bedroom, study, and bath for Jean. On the floor above a room was set apart for Giusippe, so that he might stay at the house whenever he chose. Saturday nights and Sundays he always spent at Uncle Tom's; the rest of the time he lived with his uncle and aunt.

To Giusippe it was good to be once more with his kin and talk in his native language; and yet such a transformation had a few months in the United States made in him that he found that he was less and less anxious to remain an Italian and more and more eager to become an American. His uncle, who had made but a poor success of life in Venice, and who had secured in his foster country prosperity and happiness, declared there was no land like it. He missed, it is true, the warm, rich beauty of his birthplace beyond the seas, and many a time talked of it to his wife and Giusippe; but the lure of the great throbbing American city gripped him with its fascination. It presented endless opportunity—the chance to learn, to possess, to win out.

"If you have brains and use them, if you are not afraid of hard work, there is no limit to what a man may do and become over here," he told Giusippe. "That is why I like it, and why I never shall go back to Italy. Just you jump in, youngster, and don't you worry but you'll bring up somewhere in the end."

There was no need to urge a lad of Giusippe's make-up to "jump in"; on the contrary it might, perhaps, have been wiser advice to caution him not to take his new work too hard. He toiled early and late, never sparing himself, never thinking of fatigue. Physically he was a rugged boy, and to this power was linked the determination to make good. Before he had been a month in the glass house he was recognized by all the men as one who would make of each task merely a stepping-stone to something higher. His uncle was congratulated right and left on having such a nephew, and very proud indeed he was of Giusippe.

In the meantime Uncle Tom Curtis, although apparently busy with more important matters, kept his eyes and ears open. Frequent reports concerning his protege reached him in his far-away office at the other end of the works. Indeed the boy would have been not a little surprised had he known how very well informed about his progress the head of the firm really was. But Uncle Tom never said much. He did, however, write Uncle Bob that to bring home a penniless Italian as a souvenir of Venice was not such a crazy scheme after all as he had at first supposed it. From Uncle Tom this was rare praise, a complete vindication, in fact. Uncle Bob chuckled over the letter and showed it to Hannah, who rubbed her hands and declared things were working out nicely.

"Some day, Giusippe," remarked Uncle Tom one evening after dinner, when together with the young people he was sitting within the crimson glow of the library lamp, "I propose you take Jean through the works. It is ridiculous that a niece of mine should acquaint herself with the history of the glass of all the past ages and never go through her own uncle's factory. What do you say, missy? Would you like to go?"

"Of course, Uncle Tom, I'd love to. I wrote Uncle Bob only the other day that I wanted dreadfully to see how plate glass was made and hoped some time you'd take me. I didn't like to ask you for fear you were too busy."

"I have been a little rushed, I'll admit. We business men," he slapped Giusippe on the shoulder, "live in a good deal of a whirl—eh, Giusippe?"

"I know you do, sir."

"And you? You have nothing to do, I suppose. It chances that I have heard to the contrary, my lad. You've put in some mighty good work since you came here, and I am much gratified by the spirit you've shown."

Giusippe glowed. It was not a common thing for Mr. Curtis to commend.

"I didn't know, sir, that you——"

"Knew what you were doing? Didn't any one ever tell you that I have a search-light and a telescope in my office?" Uncle Tom laughed. "Oh, I keep track of things even if I do seem to be otherwise occupied. So look out for yourself! Beware! My eyes may be upon you almost any time."

"I am not afraid, sir," smiled the boy.

"And you have no cause to be, either, my lad," was Uncle Tom's serious rejoinder. "Now you and Jean fix up some date to see the works. Why not to-morrow? It is Saturday, and she will not be at school."

"But I work Saturday mornings, Mr. Curtis."

"Can't somebody else do your work for you?"

"I have never asked that."

"Well, I will. We'll arrange it. Let us say to-morrow then. Take Jean and explain things to her. You can do it, can't you?"

"I think so. Most of the process I understand now, and if there is anything that I need help about I can ask."

"That's right. Just go ahead and complete the girl's education in glass-making so she can write her Boston uncle that she is now qualified to superintend any glass works that may require her oversight."

Jean laughed merrily.

"I am afraid I should be rather a poor superintendent, Uncle Tom," said she. "There seems to be such a lot to know about glass."

"There is," agreed Mr. Curtis. "Sometimes I feel as if about everything in the world was made of it. Of course you've seen the ink erasers made of a cluster of fine glass fibres. Oh, yes; they have them. And the aigrettes made in the same way and used in ladies' bonnets. Then there are those beautiful brocades having fine threads of spun glass woven into them in place of gold and silver; it was a Toledo firm, by the way, that presented to the Infanta Eulalie of Spain a dress of satin and glass woven together. To-day came an order from California for glass to serve yet another purpose; you could never guess what. The people out there want some of our heaviest polished plate to make the bottoms of boats."

"Of boats!"

"Boats," repeated Uncle Tom, nodding.

"But—but why make a glass-bottomed boat?"

"Well, in California, Florida, and many other warm climates boats with bottoms of glass are much in use. Sightseers go out to where the water is clear and by looking down through the transparent bottom of the boat they can see, as they go along, the wonderful plant and animal life of the ocean. Such reptiles, such fish, such seaweeds as there are! I have heard that it is as interesting as moving pictures, and quite as thrilling, too."

"I'd like to do it," said Giusippe.

"I shouldn't," declared Jean with a shudder. "I hate things that writhe, and squirm, and wriggle. Imagine being so near those hideous creatures! Why, if I once should see them I should never dare to go in bathing again. I'd rather not know what's in the sea."

"There is something in that, little lady," Uncle Tom answered, slipping one of his big hands over the two tiny ones in the girl's lap. "Giusippe and I will keep the sea monsters out of your path, then; and the land monsters, too, if we can. Now it is time you children got to bed, for to-morrow you must make an early start. You'd better telephone your aunt or uncle that you are going to stay here to-night, Giusippe. If you do not work to-morrow you will not need to get to the factory until Jean and I do; it will be much simpler for you to remain here and go down with us in the car. I'll call up your boss and explain matters. Good-night, both of you. Now scamper! I want to read my paper."

* * * *

The next morning the Curtis family was promptly astir, and after breakfast Uncle Tom with his two charges rolled off to the factory in the big red limousine.

"Your superintendent says you are welcome to the morning off, Giusippe," Mr. Curtis remarked as they sped along. "But he did have the grace to say he should miss you. Now it seems to me that if you are to give Jean a clear idea of what we do at the works you better begin with the sheet glass department. That will interest her, I am sure; later you can show her where you yourself work."

The car pulled up at Mr. Curtis's office, and they all got out.

"Good-bye! Good luck to you," he called as the boy and girl started off.

Jean waved her hand.

"We will be back here and ready to go home with you, Uncle Tom, at one o'clock," she called over her shoulder.

"We won't be late, sir."

"See that you're not. I shall be hungry and shall not want to wait. I guess you'll have an appetite, too, by that time."

"Is sheet glass blown, Giusippe?" inquired Jean, as they went across the yard. "I hate to ask stupid questions, but you see I do not know anything about it."

"That isn't a stupid question. Quite the contrary. Yes, sheet glass is blown. You shall see it done, too."

"But I do not understand how they can get it flattened out, if they blow it."

"You will."

The boy led the way through a low arched door.

Before the furnaces within the great room a number of glass-blowers were at work. They stood upon wooden stagings, each one of which was built over a well or pit in the floor, and was just opposite an opening in the furnace.

"Each of these men has a work-hole of the furnace to himself, so that he may heat his material any time he needs to do so. The staging gives him room to swing his heavy mass of glass as he blows it, and the pit in the floor, which is about ten feet deep, furnishes space for the big cylinder to run out, or grow longer, as he blows. The gathering for sheet glass is done much as was that for the smaller pieces. The gatherer collects a lump on his pipe, cools it a little, and collects more until he has enough. He then rests it on one of those wooden blocks such as you see over there; the block is hollowed out so to let the blower expand the glass to the diameter he wants it."

"But I should think the block would burn when the hot glass is forced inside it."

"It would if it were not first sprinkled with water. Sometimes hollow metal blocks are used instead. In that case water passes through to keep them cool, and they are dusted over with charcoal to keep them from sticking, and from scratching the glass. After a sufficiently large mass of glass has been gathered and reheated to a workable condition the blower begins his task. First he swings the great red-hot lump about so that it will get longer. His aim is to make a long cylinder and into it he must blow constantly in order to keep it full of air. Watch that man now at work. See how deft he is, and how strong. The even thickness of the glass, and the uniformity of its size, depend entirely upon his skill. If he finds the cylinder running out too fast, or in other words getting too long, he shifts it up over his head, always taking care, however, to keep it upright."

Jean watched.

How rapidly the man worked with the great mass on his blow-pipe! Now he blew it far down into the pit beneath, where it hung like a mighty, elongated soap-bubble; now he swung it to and fro; now lifted it above his head. And all the time he was blowing into it blasts of air from his powerful lungs.

"The cylinder doesn't seem to get any bigger round," observed Jean at last.

"No. Its diameter was fixed at the beginning by the wooden block. That settles its size once and for all; it is the length and thickness of the cylinder which are governed by the blower. Do you realize how strong a man has to be to wield such a weight as that lump of metal? It is no easy matter. Luckily he can suspend it against that wooden rest if he gets too tired. In England they use a sort of iron frame called an Iron Man to relieve the blower of the weight of the glass and the device was also used at one time in Belgium; but the Belgian workmen gradually did away with it."

For a long time the two children stood there fascinated by the skill of the blowers.

"Suppose we go on now and see the rest of the process," suggested Giusippe, a little unwillingly. "I could watch these men all day, but we have much to do, and if we do not hurry we shall not get through."

The next step in the work was opening out the cylinders, and this was done in two ways. The end of those made of thinner glass was put into the furnace while at the same time air was forced inside through the blow-pipe. As a result the air expanded by the heat of the fire, and burst open the cylinder at its hottest or weakest end. By placing this opening downward it was widened to the diameter necessary. The cylinders of thicker glass were opened by fastening to one end a lump of hot metal, thereby weakening them at this point. When the air was forced in by the blower it burst open the mass and the break thus made was enlarged by cutting it round with the scissors.

"Now come on, Jean, and see them flatten it out," said Giusippe.

Upon a wooden rest or chevalet the cylinder was now laid and detached from the pipe by placing a bit of cold steel against the part of the glass that still clung to the blow-pipe. At once the neck of the glass, which was hot, contracted at the touch of the cold metal and broke away from the pipe. The small end was then taken off by winding round it a thread of hot glass, and afterward applying cold iron or steel at any point the thread had covered.

"The cylinder is now finished at top and bottom and is ready to be split up the side," said Giusippe. "This they do with a rule and a diamond point mounted in a long handle. The diamond point is drawn along the inside of the cylinder and opens it out flat. If there are any imperfections in the glass the cutter plans to have them come as near the edge of this opening as possible so there will be little waste."

Jean nodded.

"Now, as you will see, the glass is ready for the flattener. First he warms it in the flue of his furnace and then, using his croppie or iron, he puts it on the flattening-stone; if you look carefully you will see that the top of this stone is covered with a large sheet of glass. In the heat of the furnace the cylinder with the split uppermost soon opens out and falls back in a wavy mass. See?"

Jean watched intently as the great roll of glass unfolded and spread into billows. The moment it was fairly open the flattener took his polissoir, a rod of iron with a block of wood at one end, and began smoothing out the uneven sheet of glass into a flat surface. At times he had to rub it with all his strength to straighten it. This done the flattening-stone was moved on wheels to a cooler part of the furnace and the sheet of glass upon it was transferred to a cooling-stone. When stiff enough it was taken off and placed either flat or on edge in a rack with other sheets.