when I am fishing, when I lie
awake at night, when I am not thinking of it. That is all,
mademoiselle. It means nothing."

"It means a great deal!" said Henry Bliss, jumping excitedly to his
feet. "And at least it should help you to understand that it is not so
impossible after all when I tell you that, barring little crudities of
technique that are a paltry consideration, there is no sculptor in
France to-day could produce a piece of work comparable to that which
you have done."

Jean's lips were slightly parted. Excitement was upon him too. A
strange stirring was in his soul.

"But I cannot believe that," he said in a low voice.

Henry Bliss's hands were on Jean's shoulders once more, pressing them
in a hard, earnest grip.

"Nevertheless, it is true!" he asserted forcibly, "You do not know me;
but those who do could tell you that I am qualified to speak. And I
tell you that it is true. I tell you that in Paris fame, wealth, the
greatest name in France awaits you! You are through to-day with this
life forever, my boy, if you will come with me to Paris."

Fame, wealth, the greatest name in France! Jean felt the blood leave
his face. His brain seemed to whirl and to be afire. Yes, those were
the words, and the man was not playing with him; but it was some wild
hallucination, some bizarre mistake. To-day, to be through with the
hard, penniless life of a fisherman forever--and to work hereafter only
with what before had been his play! No, that was not true--it could
not be true. He meant well, this man, the father of the girl whose
eyes seemed to burn into his now and insist too that it was true, but
the little statue had been too easily done to be anything more than
perhaps a pretty little thing. Fame, a great name--that strange
stirring of his soul again! God, why had this man aroused that thought
within him, when it was not, could not be true?

"Monsieur," he said, and his voice in its hoarseness sounded strangely
in his own ears; "monsieur, has made a mistake. It cannot be so."

"Think so!" returned Henry Bliss bluntly. "I do not make mistakes of
that kind, my boy. But I will convince you. In a few days you will
see. I have telegraphed for some of the famous critics of France, men
of the Academy, men whose names are known all over Europe, and they
will tell you what I have told you--and their despair that it is I, not
they, who have discovered you will be so pitifully genuine that even
yo