eries to accompany her to the scene of her labor in the morning and
call for her at noon, and, in accordance with this habit, I made my way
to the Louvre at midday upon one occasion three years ago.

I found my wife busy at her easel in the _Grande Galerie_, and when I
approached her and laid my hand upon her shoulder, as was my wont, she
looked up with a smile and spoke to me in a cautious undertone.

"I am glad," she said, "that you are not ten minutes later. Look at
those extraordinary people."

She still leaned back in her chair and looked up at me, but made, at
the same time, one of those indescribable movements of the head which a
clever woman can render so significant.

This slight gesture directed me at once to the extraordinary people to
whom she referred.

"Are they not truly wonderful?" she asked.

There were two of them, evidently father and daughter, and they sat side
by side upon a seat placed in an archway, and regarded hopelessly one of
the finest works in the gallery. The father was a person undersized
and elderly. His face was tanned and seamed, as if with years of rough
outdoor labor; the effect produced upon him by his clothes was plainly
one of actual suffering, both physical and mental. His stiff hands
refused to meet the efforts of his gloves to fit them; his body shrank
from his garments; if he had not been pathetic, he would have been
ridiculous. But he was pathetic. It was evident he was not so attired of
his own free will; that only a patient nature, inured by long custom
to discomfort, sustained him; that he was in the gallery under
protest; that he did not understand the paintings, and that they
perplexed--overwhelmed him.

The daughter it is almost impossible to describe, and yet I must attempt
to describe her. She had a slender and pretty figure; there were slight
marks of the sun on her face also, and, as in her father's case,
the richness of her dress was set at defiance by a strong element of
incongruousness. She had black hair and gray eyes, and she sat with
folded hands staring at the picture before her in dumb uninterestedness.

Clelie had taken up her brush again, and was touching up her work here
and there.

"They have been here two hours," she said. "They are waiting for some
one. At first they tried to look about them as others did. They wandered
from seat to seat, and sat down, and looked as you see them doing now.
What do you think of them? To what nation should you a