“Upon my word,” said Mallet, “he does things handsomely!” And he fell to admiring the statue again.

“So then,” said Cecilia, “it ’s very remarkable?”

“Why, my dear cousin,” Rowland answered, “Mr. Hudson, of Virginia, is an extraordinary—­” Then suddenly stopping:  “Is he a great friend of yours?” he asked.

“A great friend?” and Cecilia hesitated.  “I regard him as a child!”

“Well,” said Rowland, “he ’s a very clever child.  Tell me something about him:  I should like to see him.”

Cecilia was obliged to go to her daughter’s music-lesson, but she assured Rowland that she would arrange for him a meeting with the young sculptor.  He was a frequent visitor, and as he had not called for some days it was likely he would come that evening.  Rowland, left alone, examined the statuette at his leisure, and returned more than once during the day to take another look at it.  He discovered its weak points, but it wore well.  It had the stamp of genius.  Rowland envied the happy youth who, in a New England village, without aid or encouragement, without models or resources, had found it so easy to produce a lovely work.

In the evening, as he was smoking his cigar on the veranda, a light, quick step pressed the gravel of the garden path, and in a moment a young man made his bow to Cecilia.  It was rather a nod than a bow, and indicated either that he was an old friend, or that he was scantily versed in the usual social forms.  Cecilia, who was sitting near the steps, pointed to a neighboring chair, but the young man seated himself abruptly on the floor at her feet, began to fan himself vigorously with his hat, and broke out into a lively objurgation upon the hot weather.  “I ’m dripping wet!” he said, without ceremony.

“You walk too fast,” said Cecilia.  “You do everything too fast.”

“I know it, I know it!” he cried, passing his hand through his abundant dark hair and making it stand out in a picturesque shock.  “I can’t be slow if I try.  There ’s something inside of me that drives me.  A restless fiend!”

Cecilia gave a light laugh, and Rowland leaned forward in his hammock.  He had placed himself in it at Bessie’s request, and was playing that he was her baby and that she was rocking him to sleep.  She sat beside him, swinging the hammock to and fro, and singing a lullaby.  When he raised himself she pushed him back and said that the baby must finish its nap.  “But I want to see the gentleman with the fiend inside of him,” said Rowland.

“What is a fiend?” Bessie demanded.  “It ’s only Mr. Hudson.”

“Very well, I want to see him.”

“Oh, never mind him!” said Bessie, with the brevity of contempt.

“You speak as if you did n’t like him.”

“I don’t!” Bessie affirmed, and put Rowland to bed again.