o
face with a masterpiece of young womanhood, and say to him, not in
words, but as plainly as speech could have told him, "Behold my
captive!"

It was a proud moment for Murray Bradshaw. He had seen, or thought that
he had seen, the assured evidence of a speedy triumph over all the
obstacles of Myrtle's youth and his own present seeming slight excess of
maturity. Unless he were very greatly mistaken, he could now walk the
course; the plate was his, no matter what might be the entries. And this
youth, this handsome, spirited-looking, noble-aired young fellow, whose
artist-eye could not miss a line of Myrtle's proud and almost defiant
beauty, was to be the witness of his power, and to look in admiration
upon his prize! He introduced him to the others, reserving her for the
last. She was at that moment talking with the worthy Rector, and turned
when Mr. Bradshaw spoke to her.

"Miss Hazard, will you allow me to present to you my friend, Mr. Clement
Lindsay?"

They looked full upon each other, and spoke the common words of
salutation. It was a strange meeting; but we who profess to tell the
truth must tell strange things, or we shall be liars.

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 features and the
forms 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 feelin