Though he was very feeble, I took him to Scotland with me to visit my
brothers and sisters; and there I left him. As the hour of farewell
drew near he wanted to have me alone--all to himself.

"Ye couldn't stay at home awhile? Shure I'll be goin' in a month or
two."

"Ah, that's impossible, father." He hung his head.

"D'ye believe I'll know her whin I go? God wudn't shut me out from her
for th' things I've done--"

"Of course he won't."

"He wudn't be so d----d niggardly, wud He?"

"Never!"

He fondled my hands as if I were a child. The hour drew nigher. He had
so many questions to ask, but the inevitableness of the situation
struck him dumb. We were on the platform; the train was about to move
out. I made a motion; he gripped me tightly, whispering in my ear:

"Ask God onct in a while to let me be with yer mother--will ye, boy?"

I kissed him farewell and saw him no more.

I went on to France.

My objective point in France was the study of Millet and his work. I
wanted to interpret him to working people in New Haven.

So to Greville on La Hague I went with a camera.

Greville consists of a church and a dozen houses. Gruchy is half a
mile beyond, on the edge of the sea.

In Gruchy Millet was born; in Greville he first came into contact with
incentive--I photographed both places and spent a night and a day with
M. Polidor, the old inn-keeper who was the painter's friend.

Surely, never was so large a statue erected in so small a village. The
peasant artist sits there on a bank of mosses, looking over at the old
church that squats on the hillside. In Cherbourg I found more traces
of his art and some stories of his life there that would be out of
place here.

I found four portraits painted while he was paying court to his first
wife. I found them in a little shoe shop in a by-street, in possession
of a distant relative of his first wife.

From Cherbourg I went to Barbizon, where Millet spent the latter part
of his life. I was very graciously received and entertained by his son
Francois and his American wife.

To browse among the master's relics, to handle the old books of his
small library, to hold, as one would a babe of tender years, his
palette, were small things, judged by the values of the average life:
to me it was one of the most inspiring hours of my career.

Paris was to me an art centre--little more. I followed the footsteps
of Millet from one place to another. I sat before his painti