to look at them. This was an idea worthy of being
copied, and one of which she was sure nobody else would be likely to
think. Abandoning her skates, therefore, one afternoon, she retired to
the now deserted lawn, and set to work. The snow was not such an easy
medium as clay, but it was in prime condition for her purpose, being
soft enough to model, yet stiff enough to hold together. Aldred's scheme
was decidedly ambitious, for she had decided to make a representation in
snow of the Venus of Milo. She had chosen that for her subject because
of its lack of arms and its flowing draperies, as she knew it would be
quite impossible to reproduce a Flying Mercury or the Dying Gladiator.
She had really a strong talent for sculpture, and contrived, with the
aid of a framework of broomsticks, to give her statue a wonderfully good
pose. She had brought out a photograph of the original, which she
constantly consulted; and she worked away with great enjoyment, shaping
the snow with deft hands, and using some flat pieces of wood and a
palette knife from the studio as her modelling tools. She felt it was
almost one of the most exciting things she had ever done in her life.
The keen joy of creation, that true heritage of all who possess artistic
ability thrilled her fingers, as she put dainty touches here and there,
and watched the resemblance to the Venus evolve itself by slow degrees
from her great mass of snow. She thought of Michelangelo, who saw the
angel in a rough block of marble, only waiting to be released by his
chisel, and felt as if she, too, were trying to free the goddess, and
give her human form. For the time all thought of what the girls would
say was forgotten, and she worked for the love of art alone, sighing
with satisfaction as she successfully put in a delicate fold of dress,
or a ripple of classic hair.

It was finished at last, even to the pedestal, and Aldred stepped back
and looked at it with mixed feelings. She had done her very best; she
dared not add another impress, from fear of spoiling it, yet she knew
how far it fell short of her ideal.

"I wonder if Phidias used to be contented with what he'd done?" she
thought. "I suppose he was the greatest sculptor that ever lived. I
remember reading that Millais once went to an exhibition of his own
pictures, and came away very dejected. Shall I ask them all to come and
see it now? I want so much to show it, but somehow I hardly dare. I
almost think I'll leave it fo