broken.

'What is the matter, my poor little maid?' I asked very tenderly, for I
know that young girls are easily frightened by strangers.

She looked up with eyes like the skies I was born under. The pretty pale
cheeks were all wet, and the pretty red lips were trembling, and those
beautiful blue heavens were raining as no blue skies ought to rain.

'Ah, come, my child,' I said to her; 'how can I help you if you do not
tell me what is the matter?'

'Oh, signor,' she said, with many sobs and tears, 'I have spoiled your
beautiful picture.'

She held it up--my canvas child--all besmeared with mud. I could
not resist one exclamation of sorrow. The news was too sudden for my
self-possession to remain. But when I saw that the little English angel
began to weep afresh at this exclamation, I longed for one moment to
be able to get out of my own body, that I might chastise a poltroon so
un-philosophical. I took her by the hand instead, and led her into this
room and made her sit down, and, whilst I sponged the picture with cold
water, made her tell me how the accident had happened. For I thought,
in my Machiavellian Italian way, 'If she should go away without having
quite familiarised herself with this unhappy incident, she will always
be afraid of me.' Therefore I lured her on.

'Mrs. Hopkins asked me to take the picture to Mr. Aaron's,' she began,
still sobbing. 'I was just passing the corner when a gentleman leaped
out of a cab. The cab was moving at the time, and I did not expect to
see anybody jump from it. The gentleman missed his footing and stumbled
against me. I fell down and the picture fell face downwards on the
pavement, and a man who was passing by trod upon it.'

Now, I invite you to observe that these sentences are in no way
remarkable. Yet I felt compelled to say--

'Most admirably and succinctly put!'

For the little girl was very pleasing, and she looked very pretty and
innocent and distressed. And if you had employed a professional orator
to make the statement, he would have been a thousand miles behind her in
grace and straightforwardness, and in everything that makes human speech
beautiful and admirable. When I had removed the mud from my canvas child
I found that its countenance was badly scratched. So I busied myself in
putting up my easel and in setting my palette.

'Oh, signor,' said the poor child, 'I am so sorry.'

Then she cried again.

'Mademoiselle,' I replied, with charming gaiety,