concerning pictures, Madelon was too young, and had too strong
a conviction of her father's perfect wisdom, to discern
between his mere clever knowledge of art and the American's
pure love and enthusiasm; or if, with some instinctive sense
of the difference, she turned more readily to the latter for
information, that was because it was his _métier;_ whereas with
papa----Oh! with papa it was only an amusement; his business was
of quite another kind.

The American amused himself by painting Madelon more than
once; and she made a famous little model, sitting still and
patiently for hours to him and to her father, who had a knack
of producing any number of little, affected, meretricious
pictures, in the worst possible style and taste. Years
afterwards, Madelon revisited the studio, where the black-
bearded friendly American, grown a little bent and a little
grey, was still stepping backwards and forwards before the
same easel standing in the old place; orange and pomegranate
trees still bloomed in the windows; footsteps still passed up
and down the long corridor outside where her light childish
ones had so often echoed; the old properties hung about on the
walls; and there, amongst dusty rolls piled up in a corner,
Madelon came upon more than one portrait of herself, a pale-
faced, curly-headed child, who looked out at her from the
canvas with wistful brown eyes that seemed full of the
thoughts that at that time had begun to agitate her poor
little brain. How the sight of them brought back the old
vanished days! How it stirred within her sudden tender
recollections of the quiet hours when, dressed out in some
quaint head-gear, or _contadina_ costume, or merely in her own