"She's not--?"

The Sculptor Girl answered my half-asked question almost ferociously.

"Of course she's not dead! She is the alivest person in this whole
world--aliver than you or I can ever be! And yet,--we've lost her. She
isn't just _ours_ any more. And when she was blessedly, absolutely just
ours--we didn't appreciate her. You see, she was so frumpy and absurd
and quiet we didn't think about her--we scarcely saw her. But oh--the
minute when we did see her! It came in a flash for me! I just knew, all
of a sudden, that she was perfectly beautiful--as beautiful as her own
whistle--her lovely, lovely Mademoiselle Folly whistle--"

"Oh! Oh!" I gasped, "_You can't mean that she was--is--Mademoiselle
Folly?_"

"Mean it? Didn't you know it? Didn't you ever hear her whistle? Oh,
even now that she's gone it seems to me that I can still hear her
whistling! And no matter what any one has said about it--they couldn't
all of them, put together, say half enough--not even if they all said
things as gushy as the Poetry Girl--she said it was like water
trickling in a moonlit fountain! I only know it's like what I tried to
put into my little Pandora--that it was like what Barrie was thinking
when he let Peter Pan cry, 'I'm Joy! Joy! Joy!'--Even the Painter Boy,
who has a silly pose that he hates music, used to hang around to hear
her whistle--he pretended he was just looking at her so's he could
paint her, but that didn't fool me--Listen, there's Nor' stumping up
stairs now--he's awfully lame on these rainy days and _that_ moody--"

"Do you mean Noralla? The one who did 'The Spirit of Romance'? Does he