"I am only a wretched deposit!" sighed Lampblack, and the rusty
palette knife grumbled back, "My own life has been ruined in
cleaning dirty brushes, and see what the gratitude of men and
brushes is!"
"But at least you have been of use once; but I never am--never!"
said Lampblack, wearily; and indeed he had been there so long that
the spiders had spun their silver fleeces all about him, and he
was growing as gray as an old bottle does in a dark cellar.
At that moment the door of the studio opened, and there came a
flood of light, and the step of a man was heard: the hearts of all
the colors jumped for joy, because the step was that of their
magician, who out of mere common clays and ground ores could raise
them at a touch into splendors of the gods and divinities
immortal.
Only the heart of poor dusty Lampblack could not beat a throb the
more, because he was always left alone and never was thought
worthy even of a glance. He could not believe his senses when this
afternoon--oh, miracle and ecstasy!--the step of the master
crossed the floor to the obscured corner where he lay under his
spiders' webs, and the hand of the master touched him. Lampblack
felt sick and faint with rapture. Had recognition come at last?
The master took him up, "You will do for this work," he said; and
Lampblack was borne trembling to an easel.
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