years ago she was a model for a painter, and in the Della Salute I could
see her picture, posed as Magdalen. She got fourteen cents a day for her
work, and had been at it so long she had no desire to quit. She took
great pride in Enrico's white-duck suits and explained to me that she
never let him wear one suit more than two days without its being washed
and starched; and she always pipeclayed his shoes and carefully inspected
him each morning before sending him forth to his day's work. "Men are so
careless, you know," she added by way of apology.

There was no furniture in the rooms worth mentioning--Italians do not
burden themselves with things--but on the wall I caught sight of a
bright-colored unfinished sketch of the Bridge of Sighs. It was little
more than an outline, and probably did not represent ten minutes' work,
but the lines seemed so firm and sure that I at once asked who did it.

"An American did it, Signore, an American painter; he comes here every
year; our son is his gondolier and shows him all the best places to
paint, and takes him there when the light is good and keeps the people
back so the artist can work--you understand? A shower came up just as his
Excellency, the American, began on this, and it got wet and so he gave it
to my son and he gave it to me."

"What is the painter's name?" I asked. Enrico could not remember, but
Mona Lisa said his name was Signore Hopsmithiziano, or something like
that.

There were several little plaster images on the walls, and through the
open door that led to the adjoining room I saw a sort of an improvised
shrine, with various little votive offerings grouped about an unframed
canvas. The picture was a crude attempt at copying that grand figure in