"
"What!" said the voice. "You've found the statue, Schmetz? Ask, my
good fellow, if it is permitted that I come and view it."
"Why, of course!" said I, quickly.
"Thank you," said the voice.
There had been a great space cleared in our garden, and on the edge
of this, in removing a stubborn gum-tree, the negroes had uncovered
what they supposed to be the body of one murdered. Upon our knees,
with Schmetz helping us, we were trying to tear away the rotten
coverings, and the dirt and mold. And there, beautiful despite the
stains disfiguring him, lay the boy Love. The marble pedestal from
which he had been removed lay near him. On the base, decipherable,
was the sculptor's name, and on one side, in small letters,
"_Brought from Italy, 1803, by R.H._"
"Why, he is perfect!" cried Alicia, joyfully. "Oh, who could have
been so stupid and so cruel as to hide away something so lovely?
Poor dear little god, aren't you glad to get out of that grave and
come back to the sun? Aren't you grateful, little god, that Sophy
and I came to Hynds House?"
And at that moment a tall, slim, dark-skinned young man walked up,
hands behind his back, and stood there regarding us with eyes as
clear and cool as mountain water when the sunlight is upon it and
golden flecks come and go in its brown depths.
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