“Did n’t you tell me once, Clement, that you were attempting a bust of Innocence?  I do not see any block in your room but this.  Is that done?”

“Done with!” Clement answered; and, as he said it, the thought stung through him that this was the very stone which was to have worn the pleasant blandness of pretty Susan’s guileless countenance.  How the new features had effaced the recollection of the others!

In a few days more Clement had finished his bust.  His hours were again vacant to his thick-coming fancies.  While he had been busy with his marble, his hands had required his attention, and he must think closely of every detail upon which he was at work.  But at length his task was done, and he could contemplate what he had made of it.  It was a triumph for one so little exercised in sculpture.  The master had told him so, and his own eye could not deceive him.  He might never succeed in any repetition of his effort, but this once he most certainly had succeeded.  He could not disguise from himself the source of this extraordinary good fortune in so doubtful and difficult an attempt.  Nor could he resist the desire of contemplating the portrait bust, which—­it was foolish to talk about ideals—­was not Liberty, but Myrtle Hazard.

It was too nearly like the story of the ancient sculptor; his own work was an over-match for its artist.  Clement had made a mistake in supposing that by giving his dream a material form he should drive it from the possession of his mind.  The image in which he had fixed his recollection of its original served only to keep her living presence before him.  He thought of her as she clasped her arms around him, and they were swallowed up in the rushing waters, coming so near to passing into the unknown world together.  He thought of her as he stretched her lifeless form upon the bank, and looked for one brief moment on her unsunned loveliness,—­“a sight to dream of, not to tell.”  He thought of her as his last fleeting glimpse had shown her, beautiful, not with the blossomy prettiness that passes away with the spring sunshine, but with a rich vitality of which noble outlines and winning expression were only the natural accidents.  And that singular impression which the sight of him had produced upon her,—­how strange!  How could she but have listened to him,—­to him, who was, as it were, a second creator to her, for he had bought her back from the gates of the unseen realm,—­if he had recalled to her the dread moments they had passed in each other’s arms, with death, not love, in all their thoughts.  And if then he had told her how her image had remained with him, how it had colored all his visions, and mingled with all his conceptions, would not those dark eyes have melted as they were turned upon him?  Nay, how could he keep the thought away, that she would not have been insensible to his passion, if he could have suffered its flame to kindle in his heart?  Did it not seem as if Death had spared them for Love, and that Love should lead them together through life’s long journey to the gates of Death?