At the foot of the bed is the midwife, and a servant who has brought
drink for St. Anne. The servant stops, seeing her so quiet; asking the
midwife, Shall I give it her now? The midwife, her hands lifted under
her robe, in the attitude of thanksgiving, (with Giotto distinguishable
always, though one doesn't know how, from that of prayer,) answers,
with her look, "Let be--she does not want anything."

At the door a single acquaintance is coming in, to see the child. Of
ornament, there is only the entirely simple outline of the vase which
the servant carries; of colour, two or three masses of sober red, and
pure white, with brown and gray.

That is all. And if you can be pleased with this, you can see Florence.
But if not, by all means amuse yourself there, if you find it amusing,
as long as you like; you can never see it.

But if indeed you are pleased, ever so little, with this fresco, think
what that pleasure means. I brought you, on purpose, round, through the
richest overture, and farrago of tweedledum and tweedledee, I could
find in Florence; and here is a tune of four notes, on a shepherd's
pipe, played by the picture of nobody; and yet you like it! You know
what music is, then. Here is another little tune, by the same player,
and sweeter. I let you hear the simplest first.

The fresco on the left hand, with the bright blue sky, and the rosy
figures! Why, anybody might like that!

Yes; but, alas, all the blue sky is repainted. It _was_ blue
always, however, and bright too; and I dare say, when the fresco was