alf
dozen of us who often gathered at Hartwell's rooms--though, in
truth, there was as much to dishearten one as to inflame, in the
case of a man who had done so much in a field so amazingly
difficult; who had thrown up in bronze all the restless, teeming
force of that adventurous wave still climbing westward in our own
land across the waters. We recalled his "Scout," his "Pioneer," his
"Gold Seekers," and those monuments in which he had invested one and
another of the heroes of the Civil War with such convincing dignity
and power.

"Where in the world does he get the heat to make an idea like that
carry?" Bentley remarked morosely, scowling at the clay figure.
"Hang me, Hartwell, if I don't think it's just because you're not
really an American at all, that you can look at it like that."

The big man shifted uneasily against the window. "Yes," he replied
smiling, "perhaps there is something in that. My citizenship was
somewhat belated and emotional in its flowering. I've half a mind to
tell you about it, Bentley." He rose uncertainly, and, after
hesitating a moment, went back into his workroom, where he began
fumbling among the litter in the corners.

At the prospect of any sort of personal expression from Hartwell, we
glanced questioningly at one another; for although he made us feel
that he liked to have us about, we were always held at a distance by
a certain diffidence of his. There were rare occasions--when he was
in the heat of work or of ideas--when he forgot to be shy, but they
were so exceptional that no flattery was quite so seductive as being
taken for a moment into Hartwell's confidence. Even in the matter of
opinions--the commonest of currency in our circle--he was niggardly
and prone to qualify. No man ever guarded his mystery more
effectually. There was a singular, intense spell, therefore, about
those few evenings when he had broken through this excessive
modesty, or shyness, or melancholy, and had, as it were, committed
himself.

When Hartwell returned from the back room, he brought with him an
unframed canvas which he put on an easel near his clay figure. We
drew close about it, for the darkness was rapidly coming on. Despite
the dullness of the light, we instantly recognized the boy of
Hartwell's "Color Sergeant." It was the portrait of a very handsome
lad in uniform, standing beside a charger impossibly rearing. Not
only in his radiant countenance and flashing eyes, but in every line
of his yo