t should be without emotion? and in what
do all emotions shared by a young man with such a young girl as this
tend to find their last expression?

Clement determined to stun his sensibilities by work. He would give
himself no leisure to indulge in idle dreams of what might have been.
His plans were never so carefully finished, and his studies were never
so continuous as now. But the passion still wrought within him, and, if
he drove it from his waking thoughts, haunted his sleep until he could
endure it no longer, and must give it some manifestation. He had covered
up the bust of Liberty so closely, that not an outline betrayed itself
through the heavy folds of drapery in which it was wrapped. His thoughts
recurred to his unfinished marble, as offering the one mode in which
he could find a silent outlet to the feelings and thoughts which it was
torture to keep imprisoned in his soul. The cold stone would tell them,
but without passion; and having got the image which possessed him out of
himself into a lifeless form, it seemed as if he might be delivered from
a presence which, lovely as it was, stood between him and all that made
him seem honorable and worthy to himself.

He uncovered the bust which he had but half shaped, and struck the first
flake from the glittering marble. The toil, once begun, fascinated him
strangely, and after the day's work was done, and at every interval he
could snatch from his duties, he wrought at his secret task.

"Clement is graver than ever," the young men said at the office. "What's
the matter, do you suppose? Turned off by the girl they say he means
to marry by and by? How pale he looks too! Must have something worrying
him: he used to look as fresh as a clove pink."

The master with whom he studied saw that he was losing color, and
looking very much worn; and determined to find out, if he could, whether
he was not overworking himself. He soon discovered that his light was
seen burning late into the night, that he was neglecting his natural
rest, and always busy with some unknown task, not called for in his
routine of duty or legitimate study.

"Something is wearing on you, Clement," he said. "You are killing
yourself with undertaking too much. Will you let me know what keeps you
so busy when you ought to be asleep, or taking your ease and comfort in
some way or other?"

Nobody but himself had ever seen his marble or its model. He had now
almost finished it, laboring at it with suc