ad moulded from
the soft clay on the banks of the levees the head of a famous general,
who had later become president. He was only twelve years old then, but
his little work bore all the indications of genius.

He was an artist from the ends of the slender hands to the centre of the
sensitive heart. The childlikeness, the beauty of his nature revealed it
in everything he did; and he was only twenty-two years old.

As he sat in the horse car, his heart full of hope, his brain teeming
with the ideal, he was an interesting figure to watch, and a fine old
gentleman on his way up town was struck by the brilliancy, the aspect of
the fellow passenger. He studied the young fellow from behind his
evening paper, but the old gentleman could not make up his mind what the
young man was. Aside from the valise at his feet Antony had no other
worldly goods, and aside from the twenty-five dollars in his pocket, he
had no other money. There was nothing about him to suggest the artistic
type: broad-shouldered, muscular, he seemed built for battles and feats
of physical strength, but his face was thoughtful for one so young. His
eyes were clear. "He looks," mused the gentleman, "like a man who has
come home after a very successful journey. I suspect the young fellow is
returning with something resembling the story books' bag of gold." He
humorously fancied even that the treasure might be in the valise on the
straw of the car at the traveller's feet.

The car tinkled slowly through the cold. After a long while, well above
a street marked Fiftieth, its road appeared to lie in the country. There
were vacant lots on either side; there were low-roofed, ramshackle
shanties; there were stray goats here and there among the rocks. Antony
said to the conductor in a pleasant, Southern voice: "You won't forget
to let me off at 70th Street." He rose at the conductor's signal and the
ringing of the bell. The old gentleman, who was a canon of the Church,
saw as the young man rose that he was lame, that he limped, that he wore
a high, double-soled boot. As Fairfax went out he lifted his hat with a
courteous "Good evening" to his only fellow passenger, for the others
had one by one left the car to go to their different destinations. "Too
bad," thought the canon to himself, "Lame, by Jove! With a smile like
that a man can win the world."

CHAPTER II

The little figure in the corner of the pink sofa had read away the hours
of the short winter af