“And who the deuce is Mr. Hudson?” asked Rowland. But he was absorbed; he lost her immediate reply. The statuette, in bronze, something less than two feet high, represented a naked youth drinking from a gourd. The attitude was perfectly simple. The lad was squarely planted on his feet, with his legs a little apart; his back was slightly hollowed, his head thrown back, and both hands raised to support the rustic cup. There was a loosened fillet of wild flowers about his head, and his eyes, under their drooped lids, looked straight into the cup. On the base was scratched the Greek word Δἱψα, Thirst. The figure might have been some beautiful youth of ancient fable,--Hylas or Narcissus, Paris or Endymion. Its beauty was the beauty of natural movement; nothing had been sought to be represented but the perfection of an attitude. This had been most attentively studied, and it was exquisitely rendered. Rowland demanded more light, dropped his head on this side and that, uttered vague exclamations. He said to himself, as he had said more than once in the Louvre and the Vatican, “We ugly mortals, what beautiful creatures we are!” Nothing, in a long time, had given him so much pleasure. “Hudson--Hudson,” he asked again; “who is Hudson?” “A young man of this place,” said Cecilia. “A young man? How old?” “I suppose he is three or four and twenty.” “Of this place, you say--of Northampton, Massachusetts?” “He lives here, but he comes from Virginia.” “Is he a sculptor by profession?” “He ‘s a law-student.” Rowland burst out laughing. “He has found something in Blackstone that I never did. He makes statues then simply for his pleasure?” Cecilia, with a smile, gave a little toss of her head. “For mine!” “I congratulate you,” said Rowland. “I wonder whether he could be induced to do anything for me?” “This was a matter of friendship. I saw the figure when he had modeled it in clay, and of course greatly admired it. He said nothing at the time, but a week ago, on my birthday, he arrived in a buggy, with this. He had had it cast at the foundry at Chicopee; I believe it ‘s a beautiful piece of bronze. He begged me to accept.” “Upon my word,” said Mallet, “he does things handsomely!” And he fell to admiring the statue again. “So then,” said Cecilia, “it ‘s very remarkable?” “Why, my dear cousin,” Rowland answered, “Mr. Hudson, of Virginia, is an extraordinary--” Then suddenly stopping: “Is he a great friend of yours?” he asked. “A great friend?” and Cecilia hesitated. “I regard him as a child!” “Well,” said Rowland, “he ‘s a very clever child. Tell me something about him: I should like to see him.”