The newcomer paused, blinking and irresolute. “But I did not know--” she began, in a faintly foreignized accent From a far corner the Bonnie Lassie spied her, and flew across the floor, flushed, radiant, and confused. “You!” she cried--and there was something in her voice that drew upon the pair curious looks from the other guests. “Oh, Madame! Why didn't you let me know?” The newcomer set her finger to her lips. “I am incognita. What is it the somber person called me? Mrs. Sparkles? Yes.” The Bonnie Lassie nodded her comprehension. “If I had known that you were making fête this evening--I cannot see your work now.” “Indeed, you can. I'll shut just us two into the studio. They won't miss me.” She gently pushed the new guest through a side door, which she closed after them. Confronted with the little sculptor's work, the visitor moved about with a swift certainty of judgment, praising this bit with a brief word, shrugging her shoulders over that, indicating by a single touch of the finger the salient defect of another, while her hostess followed her with anxious eyes. “Not bad,” murmured the critic. “You have learned much. What is under that sheet?” “Experiments,” answered the girl reluctantly. The woman swept the covering aside. Beneath were huddled a number of studies, some finished, others in the rough, ungrouped. “All the same subject, _n'est-ce-pas?_” “Yes.” The visitor examined them carefully. “Very interesting. Any more of this?” “Some notes in pencil.” “Let me see them.” The Bonnie Lassie drew out and submitted a sheaf of papers. “You have done very badly with this,” was the verdict, after concentrated study. “Or else--you have worked hard and honestly upon it?” “Harder than on anything I've done.” “There are signs of that, too. What is it you are aiming at? What is the subject? Inside, I mean?” She tapped her forehead and regarded with her luminous stare the eager girl-face before her. “Why, I hardly know. At first it was one thing, then it changed. I had thought of doing him as 'The Pioneer.' 'Something lost beyond the ranges,' you know.” The woman nodded. “Then later, I wanted to do 'The Last American,' and I modeled him for that.” “Good!” The older woman's endorsement was emphatic. “How Lincoln-like the formation of the face is, here.” She touched one of the unfinished bits. “That's the American of it. Or _is_ it? Albrecht Dürer did the same thing in his ideal Knight four centuries ago. You know it? It's like a portrait of Lincoln. Did you consciously mould that line in?” “Ah!” The girl contemplated her own work with glowing eyes. “That's the haunting resemblance I felt but couldn't catch when I first saw my model.” “It isn't in most of these.” “My fault. It must have been there, underneath, all the time.” “Hm! You consider those pretty faithful studies?”