oon. Besides, you know how to
take a woman on her better side; but not he. Natheless, I wish he would
not starve to death in my house, to get me a bad name. Anyway, one
starveling is enough in any house. You are far from home, and it is for
me, which am the mistress here, to number your meals--for me and the
Dutch wife, your mother, that is far away: we two women shall settle
that matter. Mind thou thine own business, being a man, and leave
cooking and the like to us, that are in the world for little else that
I see but to roast fowls, and suckle men at starting, and sweep their
grownup cobwebs."

"Dear kind dame, in sooth you do often put me in mind of my mother that
is far away."

"All the better; I'll put you more in mind of her before I have done
with you." And the honest soul beamed with pleasure.

Gerard not being an egotist, nor blinded by female partialities, saw his
own grief in poor proud Pietro; and the more he thought of it the more
he resolved to share his humble means with that unlucky artist; Pietro's
sympathy would repay him. He tried to waylay him; but without success.

One day he heard a groaning in the room. He knocked at the door, but
received no answer. He knocked again. A surly voice bade him enter.

He obeyed somewhat timidly, and entered a garret furnished with a chair,
a picture, face to wall, an iron basin, an easel, and a long chest,
on which was coiled a haggard young man with a wonderfully bright eye.
Anything more like a coiled cobra ripe for striking the first comer was
never seen.

"Good Signor Pietro," said Gerard, "forgive me that, weary of my own
solitude, I intrude on yours; but I am your nighest neighbour in this
house, and methinks your brother in fortune. I am an artist too."

"You are a painter? Welcome, signer. Sit down on my bed."

And Pietro jumped off and waved him into the vacant throne with a
magnificent demonstration of courtesy.

Gerard bowed, and smiled; but hesitated a little. "I may not call
myself a painter. I am a writer, a caligraph. I copy Greek and Latin
manuscripts, when I can get them to copy."

"And you call that an artist?"

"Without offence to your superior merit, Signor Pietro."

"No offence, stranger, none. Only, meseemeth an artist is one who
thinks, and paints his thought. Now a caligraph but draws in black and
white the thoughts of another."

"'Tis well distinguished, signor. But then, a writer can write the
thoughts of the great ancients,