arm as the Garden of
Eden on the first day of creation. In her eagerness to see she had
pushed her broad-brimmed hat back, and the warm summer sun was burning
little golden spots on her delicate cheeks and the narrow bridge of her
finely shaped nose. She held the brush that she had dipped into the
green on her palette up against the green of the meadow in order to
compare the two, and blinked with half-closed eyes to see if she had
got the colour right.

At that moment a sound made her start--it was half a growl of
displeasure at the disturbance, half a murmur of approval. Her husband
had risen and was looking at a couple of children who had approached
them noiselessly. They were offering rhododendrons for sale, the girl
had a small basket full of them, the boy was carrying his nosegay in
his hand.

What exceedingly pretty creatures they were, the girl so blue-eyed
and gentle, the boy a regular little scamp. The woman's heart swelled.
She bought all the rhododendrons from them, even gave them more
than they asked for them.

That was a stroke of great luck for the little Swiss boy and
girl--just think, to get more than they had asked for. They blushed
with happiness, and when the strange lady asked them questions in a
kind voice, they commenced to chatter ingenuously.

She would have to paint _those_ children, they were really too
delightful, they were a thousand times more beautiful than the most
beautiful landscape.

Paul Schlieben looked on with a strange uneasiness whilst his wife
painted the children, first the big girl and then the small boy. How
intently she gazed at the boy's round face. Her eyes were brilliant,
she never seemed to be tired, and only paused when the children grew
impatient. All her thoughts turned on the painting. Would the children
come again that day? Was the light good? Surely there would not be a
storm to prevent the children from coming? Nothing else was of any
interest to her. She displayed great zeal. And still the pictures
turned out bad; the features were like theirs, but there was no trace
of the child-mind in them. He saw it clearly: those who are childless
cannot paint children.

Poor woman! He looked on at her efforts with a feeling of deep
compassion. Was not her face becoming soft like a mother's, lovely and
round when she bent down to the children? The Madonna type--and still
this woman had been denied children.

No, he could not look on at it any longer, it made him ill