Meantime he began to dream of the monument he chose to consider she had committed to his making. It should be the triumph of his art; but more, it would represent in stone the indissoluble union of his love with her memory. Through him alone would she enter upon her long after-life of saint-like reminiscence.
When the tidings of her death came, he soon sprang up from the prostration of his grief with a burning desire to consummate his beloved work.
"Year after year your memory shall grow as a legend of the beautiful."
These words now became the inspiration of his masterpiece. Day and night it took shape in the rolling chaos of his sorrow. What sculptor in the world ever espoused the execution of a work that lured more irresistibly from their hiding-places the shy and tender ministers of his genius? What one ever explored with greater boldness the utmost limits of artistic expression, or wrought in sterner defiance of the laws of our common forgetfulness?
III.
One afternoon, when people thronged the great cemetery of the city, a strolling group were held fascinated by the unique loveliness of a newly erected monument.
"Never," they exclaimed, "have we seen so exquisite a masterpiece. In whose honor is it erected?"
But when they drew nearer, they found carved on it simply a woman's name.
"Who was she?" they asked, puzzled and disappointed. "Is there no epitaph?"
"Aye," spoke up a young man lying on the grass
