ointed
her to the heaven of good women--or--?

And eventually this theme held and swayed the play--this effect of a
deep love upon such a nature as Nella-Rose's, the propelling power--the
redeeming and strengthening influence. In the end Truedale called his
work "The Interpretation."

And while this was going on behind the attic door, a seemingly slight
incident had the effect of reinforcing Truedale's growing belief in his
philosophy.

He and Lynda went one day to the studio of a sculptor who had suddenly
come into fame because of a wonderful figure, half human, half divine,
that had startled the sophisticated critics out of their usual calm.

The man had done much good work before, but nothing remarkable; he had
taken his years of labour with patient courage, insisting that they were
but preparation. He had half starved in the beginning--had gradually
made his way to what every one believed was a mediocre standstill; but
he kept his faith and his cheerful outlook, and then--he quietly
presented the remarkable figure that demanded recognition and
appreciation.

The artist had sold his masterpiece for a sum that might reasonably have
caused some excitement in his life--but it had not!

"I'm sorry I let the thing go," he confided to a chosen few; "come and
help me bid it good-bye."

Lynda and Conning were among the chosen, and upon the afternoon of their
call they happened to be alone with him in the studio.

All other pieces of work had been put away; the figure, in the best
possible light, stood alone; and the master, in the most impersonal way,
stood guard over it with reverent touch and hushed voice.

Had his attitude been a pose it would have been ridiculous; but it was
so detached, so sincere, so absolutely humble, that it rose to the
height of dignified simplicity.

"Thornton, where did you get your inspiration--your model?" Truedale
asked, after the beauty of the thing had sunk into his heart.

"In the clay. Such things are always in the clay," was the quiet reply.

Lynda was deeply moved, not only by the statue, but by its creator.
"Tell us, please," she said earnestly, "just what you mean. I think it
will help us to understand."

Thornton gave a nervous laugh. He was a shy, retiring man but he thought
now only of this thing he had been permitted to portray.

"I always"--he began hesitatingly--"take my plaster in big lumps,
squeeze it haphazard, and then sit and look at it. After that, it is a