of hopefulness and self-confidence to her expression. Mind and face have
the same curves."

"Is that your idea of our national type?" asked Strong. "Why don't you
put it into one of your saints in the church, and show what you mean by
American art?"

"I wish I could," said the artist. "I have passed weeks trying to catch
it. The thing is too subtle, and it is not a grand type, like what we
are used to in the academies. But besides the riddle, I like Miss Dudley
for herself. The way she takes my brutal criticisms of her painting
makes my heart bleed. I mean to go down on my knees one of these days,
and confess to her that I know nothing about it; only if her style is
right, my art is wrong."

"What sort of a world does this new deity of yours belong to?" asked the
clergyman.

"Not to yours," replied Wharton quickly. "There is nothing medieval
about her. If she belongs to any besides the present, it is to the next
world which artists want to see, when paganism will come again and we
can give a divinity to every waterfall. I tell you, Hazard, I am sick at
heart about our church work; it is a failure. Never till this morning
did I feel the whole truth, but the instant I got inside the doors it
flashed upon me like St. Paul's great light. The thing does not belong
to our time or feelings."

The conversation having thus come round to the subject which Mr. Hazard
wanted to discuss, the three men plunged deep into serious talk which
lasted till after midnight had struck from the neighboring church.