He was a genius, and was at work on his masterpiece.

But he was a poor man, and lived in a small garret, which was studio, workshop, and bedroom to him.

He had his statue almost finished, in clay, when one night there came suddenly a great frost over the city.

The sculptor lay on his bed, with his statue before him in the centre of the fireless room.

As the chill air came down upon him, he knew that in the intense cold there was danger that the water in the interstices of the clay would freeze and destroy his precious work.