into a weird red hue like the light of a stormy
sunset.

"And now we have drawn up, signed, and sealed our compact of
friendship," she said gaily, "will you come and see my studio? There is
nothing in it that deserves to last, I think; still, one has patience
with a child when he builds his brick houses, and you must have equal
patience with me. Come!"

And she led the way through her lovely room, which I now noticed was
full of delicate statuary, fine paintings, and exquisite embroidery,
while flowers were everywhere in abundance. Lifting the hangings at the
farther end of the apartment, she passed, I following, into a lofty
studio, filled with all the appurtenances of the sculptor's art. Here
and there were the usual spectral effects which are always suggested to
the mind by unfinished plaster models--an arm in one place, a head in
another; a torso, or a single hand, protruding ghost-like from a fold
of dark drapery. At the very end of the room stood a large erect
figure, the outlines of which could but dimly be seen through its linen
coverings; and to this work, whatever it was, Zara did not appear
desirous of attracting my attention. She led me to one particular
corner; and, throwing aside a small crimson velvet curtain, said:

"This is the last thing I have finished in marble. I call it
'Approaching Evening.'"

I stood silently before the statue, lost in admiration. I could not
conceive it possible that the fragile little hand of the woman who
stood beside me could have executed such a perfect work. She had
depicted "Evening" as a beautiful nude female figure in the act of
stepping forward on tip-toe; the eyes were half closed, and the sweet
mouth slightly parted in a dreamily serious smile. The right forefinger
was laid lightly on the lips, as though suggesting silence; and in the
left hand was loosely clasped a bunch of poppies. That was all. But the
poetry and force of the whole conception as carried out in the statue
was marvellous.

"Do you like it?" asked Zara, half timidly.

"Like it!" I exclaimed. "It is lovely--wonderful! It is worthy to rank
with the finest Italian masterpieces."

"Oh, no!" remonstrated Zara; "no, indeed! When the great Italian
sculptors lived and worked--ah! one may say with the Scriptures, 'There
were giants in those days.' Giants--veritable ones; and we modernists
are the pigmies. We can only see Art now through the eyes of others who
came before us. We cannot create anything