g him gently on the ground as a
gondola approached; he, with his thought in intense realization, fixing
the peculiar beauty of these sunset clouds in his artist memory as sole
color-scheme of his picture; for this grave, sweet face, with its pale,
fair tones and profusion of soft brown hair, would not bear the vivid
draperies that the Veronese was wont to fashion--the mantle must be a
gray cloud, pink flushed, with delicate sunset borderings where it swept
away to shroud the child; the beauty of his creation should be in that
smile of exquisite compassion, and this wonderful sunset in which it
should glow forever!

It was a rare moment with the Veronese, in which he seemed lifted above
himself; the revelation of the face had seized him, translating him into
the poetic atmosphere which he rarely attained; the harmonies of the
vision were so perfect that they sufficed for the over-sumptuousness of
color and detail which were usually features of his conceptions.

Some one called impatiently from the gondola in rude, quick tones, and
the artist woke from his reverie. The maiden lingered on the step for a
word of adieu to this stranger who wished to give the little one
pleasure, but she dared not disturb him, for he was some great
signor--so she interpreted his dress and bearing--and she was only a
maiden of Murano.

He was still under the spell of his great moment, and he was in the
presence of one who should help him to make it immortal; he uncovered
his head with a motion of courtly deference he did not often assume as
he started forward over the rough planks of the traghetto. "Signora,
where shall I bring the flowers to make the little one smile?"

"To Murano, near the Stabilimento Magagnati, Eccellenza," she answered
without hesitation, lifting the baby in her arms to escape the rough
help of the gondolier, who reached forward to hasten his stumbling
movements.

And so they floated off from the traghetto--the Madonna that was to be,
into the deepening twilight, while the Veronese, a splendid and
incongruous figure amid these lowly surroundings, leaned against the
paltry column that supported the shrine, wrapped in a delicious reverie
of creation; for he was unused to failure and he had no doubts, though
he had not yet proffered his request.

"To-morrow," he said, "I will paint that face!"

* * * * *

"By our Lady of Murano!" the gondolier cried suddenly. "He spoke to thee
like a