Thank God! the manuscript
was legible. Oliver's handwriting possessed the clearness of
print. She had begun to read before she knew it, and having begun,
she never paused till she reached the end.
I was fifteen. It was my birthday and I had my own ideas of how I
wanted to spend it. My hobby was modelling. My father had no
sympathy with this hobby. To him it was a waste of time better
spent in study or such sports as would fit me for study. But he
had never absolutely forbidden me to exercise my talent this way,
and when on the day I mention I had a few hours of freedom, I
decided to begin a piece of work of which I had long dreamed. This
was the remodelling in clay of an exquisite statue which had
greatly aroused my admiration.
This statue stood in a forbidden place. It was one of the art
treasures of the great house on the bluff commonly called
Spencer's Folly. I had seen this marble once, when dining there
with father, and was so impressed by its beauty, that it haunted
me night and day, standing out white and wonderful in my
imagination, against backgrounds of endless variation. To copy its
lovely lines, to caress with a creative hand those curves of
beauty instinct, as I then felt, with soul, became my one
overmastering desire,--a desire which soon deepened into purpose.
The boy of fifteen would attempt the impossible. I procured my
clay and then awaited my opportunity. It came, as I have said, on
my birthday.
There was no one living in the house at this time.
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