is
art, even hinted at genius, and one day fetched his treasures, his bits
of moistened clay, to show the children.

"Oh, they are perfectly _beautiful_, Cousin Antony. Wouldn't you do
Gardiner's head for mother?"

On this day, with his overcoat and hat, Fairfax had laid by a paper
parcel. It was stormy, and around the upper windows the snow blew and
the winds cried. Propped up by pillows, Gardiner, in his red flannel
dressing-gown, nestled in the corner of the sofa. Antony regarded Bella,
red as a cardinal bird in her homely dress; he had seen her wear no
other dress and would have regretted the change.

"Oh, I'll do Gardiner one of these days, but I reckon I'll make another
study to-day."

"Me?" Bella shook back her mane.

Her cousin considered her with an impersonal eye, whose expression she
did not understand to be the artist's gauge and measure.

"Bella," he said shortly, "I'm going to make a cast of your foot."

She was sitting on the sofa and drew her feet under her.

"Only just my foot, Cousin Antony, not all of me?"

"Come now," said the sculptor, "it won't take long. It's heaps of
sport."

He unrolled the paper parcel he had brought, unfolding a mass of snowy,
delectable looking powder.

"Ask old Ann to fetch us a couple of basins, deep ones, some water and a
little oil and salt."

When after toilsome journeys up and down the stairs of the four-storied
house, the things had been fetched, Fairfax mixed his plaster, eagerly
watched by the children. Perched on the edge of the divan, Bella brooded
over the foaming, marvellous concoction, into whose milky bubbles she
saw art fall like a star--a genius blossom like a flower. She gazed at
Antony's hands as they plunged in and came out dripping; gazed as though
she expected him to bring forth some peerless image his touch had called
to life. His shirt sleeves rolled up over his fine arms, his close
high-cropped and sunny hair warm upon his brow, his eyes sparkling, he
bent an impassioned face over the milky plaster.

"Now," Fairfax said, "hurry along, Bella, I'm ready!"

She responded quietly. "I'm here. It's like a snow pie, Cousin Antony."

"Take off your shoe and stocking."

"Cousin Antony!"

A painful flush of red, the drawing under her more closely of the little
legs, showed how far she had been from comprehending.

"Casts are taken from life, Bella," informed her cousin practically,
"you'll see. I'm going to make a model from life, then wa