He and Lynda went one day to the studio of a sculptor who had suddenly
come into fame because of a wonderful figure, half human, half divine,
that had startled the sophisticated critics out of their usual calm.
The man had done much good work before, but nothing remarkable; he had
taken his years of labour with patient courage, insisting that they were
but preparation. He had half starved in the beginning--had gradually
made his way to what every one believed was a mediocre standstill; but
he kept his faith and his cheerful outlook, and then--he quietly
presented the remarkable figure that demanded recognition and
appreciation.
The artist had sold his masterpiece for a sum that might reasonably have
caused some excitement in his life--but it had not!
"I'm sorry I let the thing go," he confided to a chosen few; "come and
help me bid it good-bye."
Lynda and Conning were among the chosen, and upon the afternoon of their
call they happened to be alone with him in the studio.
All other pieces of work had been put away; the figure, in the best
possible light, stood alone; and the master, in the most impersonal way,
stood guard over it with reverent touch and hushed voice.
Had his attitude been a pose it would have been ridiculous; but it was
so detached, so sincere, so absolutely humble, that it rose to the
height of dignified simplicity.
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