ows' part of the house, divided from
their human companions only by a door. He whipped out the sketch-block
and small box of colors which he always carries, and began jotting down
impressions. A dash of red for the painted brick walls, and of green for
the mangers; a yellow blur for the mote-filled rays of sunshine
streaming through the cows' white-curtained windows, and on the
flower-pots adorning their window-sills; a trifle more elaboration for
the carpet of sawdust stamped with an ornamental pattern, and the quaint
design of the cupboard-beds for the stablemen in the wall opposite; a
streak here and there for the cords which loop the cows' tails to nails
in the ceiling; gorgeous spots of crimson and yellow for the piled
cheeses. And in the adjoining room, the while our guide described in
creditable English the process of cheese-making, Starr sketched him
standing before his big blue press, printing out his molds with an odd,
yellow reflection from the cheese cannonballs heaped on trays, shining
up into the shrewd Dutch face. Then in came the young wife, with a child
or two (pretty dark creatures like their mother, with the innocent brown
eyes of calves), followed by grandmama in her gold helmet, to say that
our meal was ready; and Starr induced them to stand for him, though they
were reluctant and self-conscious, and it was by sheer fascination that
he prevailed.

[Illustration: _Starr induced them to stand for him, though they were
reluctant and self-conscious_]

Never had any of the party except myself seen a room like that to which
we were summoned for luncheon, and Starr could not eat until he had said
in a "few words of paint" what he thought of its paneled walls, its
shelves littered with quaint and foolish china, ostrich eggs, shells,
model ships, and hundred-year-old toys; its ancient brass-handled chests
of drawers, its extraordinary fireplace, and best of all, its
white-curtained cupboard-beds; one for grandmama, with a kind of trapeze
arrangement to help her rise; one for papa and mama, with an inner shelf
like a nest for baby; and one with a fence for a parcel of children. The
artist's cream-eggs grew cold while he worked, but it was worth the
sacrifice, for the result was excellent, and Nell's admiration gave me,
I'm ashamed to say, a qualm of jealousy. I have no such accomplishments
with which to win her.

We sat in high chairs with pictures of ships painted on backs and arms,
while we lunched off w