re are those who hold that
the Madonna della Sedia at Florence is its equal in beauty and
greatness, but I do not agree with them. To me the Sistine Madonna is
always first. Centuries ago, even, its full worth was appreciated. It
brought a great price at----"

The rest of his speech trailed off into nothingness. John had
impatiently moved further away, and had deliberately closed his ear also
to any dying sounds of oratory that might reach him. He had his own
method of seeing the wonders of the Old World. He was interested or he
was not. It was to him a state of mind, atmospheric in a way. He liked
to breathe it in, and the rattle of a guide or tutor's lecture nearly
always broke the spell.

Anxious that Mr. Anson should not have any further chance to mar his
pleasure he moved yet closer to the great window from which came nearly
all the light that fell upon the Sistine Madonna. There he stood almost
in the center of the beams and gazed upon the illumined face, which
spoke only of peace upon earth and good will. He was moved deeply,
although there was no sign of it in his quiet eyes. He did not object to
emotion and to its vivid expression in others, but his shy nature,
feeling the need of a defensive armor, rejected it for himself.

It was a brighter day than the changeful climate of Dresden and the
valley of the Elbe usually offered. The sunshine came in a great golden
bar through the window and glowed over the wonderful painting which had
stood the test of time and the critics. He had liked the good, gray city
sitting beside its fine river. It had seemed friendly and kind to him,
having in it the quality of home, something almost American in its
simplicity and lack of caste.

They had arrived as soon as the doors were opened, and but few people
were yet in the room. John came from his mood of exaltation and glanced
at the others, every one in turn. Two women, evidently teachers, stood
squarely in front of the picture and looked alternately at the Madonna
and one of the red volumes that mark the advance of the American hosts
in Europe. A man with a thick, black beard, evidently a Russian, moved
incessantly back and forth, his feet keeping up a light shuffle on the
floor. John wondered why some northern races should be so emotional and
others so reserved. He had ceased to think that climate ruled
expression.

A stout German frau stood gazing in apparent stolidity. Yet she was not
so stolid as she seemed, because