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The Sculptor's Triumph.

"Decidedly the best thing we have seen yet. It will be the chosen master-piece. Do you not say so?" said the latter, addressing the eldest of the party, who still stood silently glancing from the statue to Andrea with a troubled gaze.

"If it should be seen at the exhibition, yes—but"—

"If, Signor?" interrupted Andrea; "I intend to send it there; that is, if your permission will be granted."

"That is yours," said one of the old men, who had seated himself by the table, and was now writing. He held out the order of admission. "Send the statue betimes to-morrow; the doors will be open by ten."

Andrea extended his trembling hand for the paper, his lips moved inarticulately; the quick revulsion from despair to ecstasy had rendered him speechless. He was intoxicated with happiness, yet its suddenness caused him to suffer intensely. At that moment he felt that he knew what the sense of dying with joy must be.

Two of the judges passed out of the studio. The eldest lingered a moment behind, and whispered to Andrea, in a voice of command; "Remain here for a short time; I will return; I have something of importance to say to you."

Andrea bowed, smilingly.

The door closed, and he threw himself upon his knees and gave vent to his gratitude and rapture

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