off the stool. "Come in, Mrs. Kohler," she called, "and
show me the piece-picture."

The old woman laughed, pulled off her big gardening-
gloves, and pushed Thea to the lounge before the object of
her delight. The "piece-picture," which hung on the wall
and nearly covered one whole end of the room, was the
handiwork of Fritz Kohler. He had learned his trade under
an old-fashioned tailor in Magdeburg who required from
each of his apprentices a thesis: that is, before they left his
shop, each apprentice had to copy in cloth some well-
known German painting, stitching bits of colored stuff
together on a linen background; a kind of mosaic. The
pupil was allowed to select his subject, and Fritz Kohler
had chosen a popular painting of Napoleon's retreat from
Moscow. The gloomy Emperor and his staff were repre-
sented as crossing a stone bridge, and behind them was the
blazing city, the walls and fortresses done in gray cloth
with orange tongues of flame darting about the domes and
minarets. Napoleon rode his white horse; Murat, in Ori-
ental dress, a bay charger. Thea was never tired of exam-
ining this work, of hearing how long it had taken Fritz to

make it, how much it had been admired, and what narrow
escapes it had had from moths and fire. Silk, Mrs. Kohler
explained, would have been much easier to manage than
woolen cloth, in which it was often hard to get the right
shades. The reins of the horses, the wheels of the spurs,