here or there. Irma scarcely ventured to look up at this effigy of
herself in Grecian costume--transformed and yet herself. The idea of
being thus translated into the purest of art's forms filled her with a
tremor, half joy, half fear.

It was on a winter afternoon. Irma was working assiduously at a copy of
a bust of Theseus, for it was growing dark. Near her stood her
preceptor's marble bust of Doctor Gunther. All was silent; not a sound
was heard save now and then the picking or scratching of the chisel.

At that moment the master descended the ladder, and drawing a deep
breath, said:--

"There--that will do. One can never finish. I shall not put another
stroke to it. I am afraid that retouching would only injure it. It
is done."

In the master's words and manner, struggling effort and calm content
seemed mingled. He laid the chisel aside. Irma looked at him earnestly
and said:--

"You are a happy man; but I can imagine that you are still unsatisfied.
I don't believe that even Raphael or Michael Angelo was ever satisfied
with the work he had completed. The remnant of dissatisfaction which an
artist feels at the completion of a work is the germ of a new creation."

The master nodded his approval of her words. His eyes expressed his
thanks. He went to the water-tap and washed his hands. Then he placed
himself near Irma and looked at her, while telling her that in every
work an artist parts with a portion of his life; that the figure will