body and handle, afterwards joining them in one
exquisitely fine whole, after the manner of the Clichy crystal ware. He
was a remarkable looking being, she thought, divided between studying
his face and admiring his workmanship. Though somewhat deformed, with a
curving back and high shoulders, the face that crowned this misshapen
figure might have been the original of one of those intaglios of Venice,
which seem to reproduce all that is refined and choice in human
features. He had the broad brow, delicate, sensitive nose, curved and
mobile lips, and the square, slightly cleft chin that make up an almost
perfect outline. Yet the large dark eyes bore an expression of such
hopelessness, such unyouthful gravity, that the whole face seemed
gloomed over, as when a heavy cloud shuts out the brilliant sunshine of
an August day. He did not deign so much as a glance towards the
visitors, but like an automaton blew the graceful bulb, shaped it upon
his marver, with a light, skilful blow detached it from his
blowing-iron, received from his assistant the foot and joined the two,
with a dextrous twist and turn shaped the slender handle and added that,
all the time keeping his "divining-rod" (as Joyce named it to herself)
turning, rolling, advancing, receding, as if it were some inspired wand,
impelled to create the absolutely beautiful in form and finish. As they
slowly passed on Joyce breathed out involuntarily,

"Poor boy! He seems too sad even to wish for anything."

Dalton gave her a quick, keen glance.

"You have guessed it, Miss Lavillotte. He's got where he doesn't care.
He is one of our finest workmen, and a good fellow, but he is so
unsocial and gloomy the other boys all shun him."

"Do you know his story?" asked Joyce with interest.

"Why, yes, I know something of him. It isn't much of a story, though,"
laughing a little. "We don't go much into romancing here. He had a twin
brother that was as handsome as he in the face, and straight and tall
into the bargain; in fact, as fine a fellow as you'll see in a
century--and he shot him last year."

"Shot him?" Joyce recoiled in horror.

"Yes, accidentally of course. Their father had been a soldier in the
civil war, and in some way the rifle he carried, with his name and the
date scratched on the trigger-plate, was sent to the boys by a comrade
after his death. Dan, there, was handling it, supposing it unloaded as
usual, when it went off and shot his brother, who was leaning