atch of blue sky. At the
feet of the shady trees a brook rippled through the luxuriant grass, on
the banks of which reclined a sleeping nymph, with her nursling at her
side, its blunt little nose pressed close against the full maternal
breast, from which it seemed to be feeding quietly. In the centre of
the picture, leaning against a luxuriant tree, stood the young father,
a slim, well-built faun, looking down well pleased upon his family, and
holding in his hand the shepherd's flute with which he had just played
his wife to sleep.

Felix and Jansen were still absorbed in the contemplation of this
charming work when Rossel again appeared.

"Such a thing is refreshing, isn't it?" he said. "It is a comfort to
know that there are still men who have such beautiful dreams, and the
courage to tell them to others, no matter if advanced and sensible
humanity, which now, thank God, has outgrown its baby shoes, and every
day sets its foot down more squarely on the broad sole of realism, does
shake its head and talk about having gotten beyond such standpoints.
This man is one of the few who interest me. You have undoubtedly seen
his splendid pictures in the Schack Gallery? No? Well, since you have
only been two days in Munich, I will forgive your ignorance. I will
take you there; it will afford me the greatest pleasure to recruit a
quiet list of worshipers for my few idols."

"First of all," said Felix, smiling, "you would do me a greater favor
if you would show me something by one Edward Rossel, to whose
acquaintance my friends have led me to look forward with great
curiosity."

"My own immortal works!" cried the painter, threatening Jansen with his
finger. "I know who is behind all this. I know the sly cabals of my
much-esteemed friends, who seize every opportunity to parade my
unproductiveness before my eyes. I know that they mean no harm, and
give me credit for some talent; I ought to be ashamed of myself for not
sharing this good opinion and at last rousing myself to action. But it
all glances aside from the armor of my own self-knowledge. I don't deny
that I have all sorts of good qualifications for an artist, sense and
brains and some insight into the true aims of art. Unfortunately, there
is only one little thing lacking--the disposition to really produce
something. I should have been just the man to have been born a Raphael
without hands, and would have borne this fate with the greatest
complacency. But won't you lig