In poor little Susan’s letter there was some allusion to a bust of Innocence which the young artist had begun, but of which he had said nothing in his answer to her.  He had roughed out a block of marble for that impersonation; sculpture was a delight to him, though secondary to his main pursuit.  After his memorable adventure, the image of the girl he had rescued so haunted him that the pale ideal which was to work itself out in the bust faded away in its perpetual presence, and—­alas, poor Susan! in obedience to the impulse that he could not control, he left Innocence sleeping in the marble, and began modelling a figure of proud and noble and imperious beauty, to which he gave the name of Liberty.

The original which had inspired his conception was before him.  These were the lips to which his own had clung when he brought her back from the land of shadows.  The hyacinthine curl of her lengthening locks had added something to her beauty; but it was the same face which had haunted him.  This was the form he had borne seemingly lifeless in his arms, and the bosom which heaved so visibly before him was that which his eyes they were the calm eyes of a sculptor, but of a sculptor hardly twenty years old.

Yes,—­her bosom was heaving.  She had an unexplained feeling of suffocation, and drew great breaths,—­she could not have said why,—­but she could not help it; and presently she became giddy, and had a great noise in her ears, and rolled her eyes about, and was on the point of going into an hysteric spasm.  They called Dr. Hurlbut, who was making himself agreeable to Olive just then, to come and see what was the matter with Myrtle.

“A little nervous turn,—­that is all,” he said.

“Open the window.  Loose the ribbon round her neck.  Rub her hands.  Sprinkle some water on her forehead.

“A few drops of cologne.  Room too warm for her,—­that ’s all, I think.”

Myrtle came to herself after a time without anything like a regular paroxysm.  But she was excitable, and whatever the cause of the disturbance may have been, it seemed prudent that she should go home early; and the excellent Rector insisted on caring for her, much to the discontent of Mr. William Murray Bradshaw.

“Demonish odd,” said this gentleman, “was n’t it, Mr. Lindsay, that Miss Hazard should go off in that way.  Did you ever see her before?”

“I—­I—­have seen that young lady before,” Clement answered.

“Where did you meet her?” Mr. Bradshaw asked, with eager interest.

“I met her in the Valley of the Shadow of Death,” Clement answered, very solemnly.—­“I leave this place to-morrow morning.  Have you any commands for the city?”

“Knows how to shut a fellow up pretty well for a young one, doesn’t he?” Mr. Bradshaw thought to himself.

“Thank you, no,” he answered, recovering himself.  “Rather a melancholy place to make acquaintance in, I should think, that Valley you spoke of.  I should like to know about it.”