arition at the city gate. The woman held
out her hand. I hardly knew whether to say, 'What do you want?' or to
fall down and worship. She asked for a little money. I saw that she was
beautiful and pale; she might have stepped out of the stable of
Bethlehem! I gave her money and helped her on her way into the town. I
had guessed her story. She, too, was a maiden mother, and she had been
turned out into the world in her shame. I felt in all my pulses that
here was my subject marvellously realised. I felt like one of the old
monkish artists who had had a vision. I rescued the poor creatures,
cherished them, watched them as I would have done some precious work of
art, some lovely fragment of fresco discovered in a mouldering cloister.
In a month--as if to deepen and sanctify the sadness and sweetness of it
all--the poor little child died. When she felt that he was going she
held him up to me for ten minutes, and I made that sketch. You saw a
feverish haste in it, I suppose; I wanted to spare the poor little mortal
the pain of his position. After that I doubly valued the mother. She is
the simplest, sweetest, most natural creature that ever bloomed in this
brave old land of Italy. She lives in the memory of her child, in her
gratitude for the scanty kindness I have been able to show her, and in
her simple religion! She is not even conscious of her beauty; my
admiration has never made her vain. Heaven knows that I have made no
secret of it. You must have observed the singular transparency of her
expression, the lovely modesty of her glance. And was there ever such a
truly virginal brow, such a natural classic elegance in the wave of the
hair and the arch of the forehead? I have studied her; I may say I know
her. I have absorbed her little by little; my mind is stamped and
imbued, and I have determined now to clinch the impression; I shall at
last invite her to sit for me!"

"'At last--at last'?" I repeated, in much amazement. "Do you mean that
she has never done so yet?"

"I have not really had--a--a sitting," said Theobald, speaking very
slowly. "I have taken notes, you know; I have got my grand fundamental
impression. That's the great thing! But I have not actually had her as
a model, posed and draped and lighted, before my easel."

What had become for the moment of my perception and my tact I am at a
loss to say; in their absence I was unable to repress a headlong
exclamation. I was destined to