carefully in a fine towel, which had once been white, but which had long
grown yellow with age. Marzio unfolded the covering with a delicate
touch as though he feared to hurt what was within. He took out a large
silver crucifix, raising it carefully, and taking care not to touch the
figure. He stood it upon the bench before him, and sat down to examine
it.

It was a work of rare beauty, which he had made more than ten years
before. With the strange reticent instinct which artists sometimes feel
about their finest works, he had finished it in secret, working at night
alone, and when it was done he had put it away. It was his greatest
feat, he had said to himself, and, as from time to time he took it out
and looked at it, he gradually grew less and less inclined to show it to
any one, resolving to leave it in its case, until it should be found
after his death. It had seemed priceless to him, and he would not sell
it. With a fantastic eccentricity of reasoning he regarded it as a
sacred thing, to part with which would be a desecration. So he kept it.
Then, taking it out again, it had seemed less good to him, as his mind
became occupied with other things, and he had fancied he should do
better yet. At last he screwed it up in a wooden case and put it at the
bottom of his strong box, resolving never to look at it again. Many
years had passed since he had laid eyes upon it.

The idea which had come to him when Paolo had communicated the order to
him on the previous evening, had seemed absolutely new. It had appeared
to him as a glorification of the work he had executed in secret so long
ago. Time, and the habit of dissatisfaction had effaced from his mind
the precise image of the work of the past, and the emotions of the
present had seemed something new to him. He had drawn and modelled
during many hours, and yet he was utterly disappointed with the new