good!" exclaimed another; "Just life-like!" said they all in a chorus as
I lifted up the finished picture to show it to them, when--there was a
sudden change of scene. A woman with staring eyes, and as pale as death,
appeared on the door-step of a house close by, and holding her forehead
with her hands, as if a great calamity was to befall her, made a step
forward.

"Where is my child?" cried she in a voice of anger and despair.

"Here he is," answered one of the crowd. "The foreigner is painting a
picture of him."

There was a piercing yell, and the pale woman looked such daggers at me
that I nearly dropped the sketch, brushes and palette out of my hands.
Oh, it was such a look! Brrr! how I shivered. Then, with another yell,
tenfold more piercing than the first, she made a dash into the crowd, and
tried to snatch the child away. I have heard people say that I am
sensitive, and I believe that I really was on that occasion, for I
involuntarily shuddered as I saw at a glance what was coming. The crowd
had got so interested in the picture that they would not hear of letting
the child go; so the mother, scorned and pushed back, was unsuccessful in
her daring attempt. Boldly, however, making a fresh attack, she dashed
into the midst of them and managed to grasp the child by the head and one
arm; which led to the most unfortunate part of the business, for the
angry mother pulled with all her might in her efforts to drag her sweet
one away, while the people on the other hand pulled him as hard as they
could by the other arm and the legs, so that the poor screaming mite was
nearly torn to pieces, and no remonstrances of mine had the least effect
on this human yet very inhuman tug-of-war.