Meanwhile, the painter had arranged near the window one of the frames upon which a large piece of paper was stretched.  An old hovel was cleverly drawn in charcoal upon the paper, and within it sat the Blessed Virgin with a lovely, happy face, upon which there was withal a shade of melancholy.  At her feet in a little nest of straw lay the Infant Jesus—­very lovely, with large serious eyes.  Without, upon the threshold of the open door were kneeling two shepherd lads with staff and wallet.  “You see,” said the painter, “I am going to put your head upon one of these shepherds, and so people will know your face and, please God, take pleasure in it long after we are both under the sod, and are ourselves kneeling happily before the Blessed Mother and her Son like those shepherd lads.”  Then he seized an old chair, the back of which came off in his hand as he lifted it.  He soon fitted it into its place again, however, pushed it in front of the frame, and I had to sit down on it, and turn my face sideways to him.  I sat thus for some minutes perfectly still, without stirring.  After a while, however—­I am sure I do not know why—­I felt that I could endure it no longer; every part of me began to twitch, and besides, there hung directly in front of me a piece of broken looking-glass into which I could not help glancing perpetually, making all sorts of grimaces from sheer weariness.  The painter, noticing this, burst into a laugh, and waved his hand to signify that I might leave my chair.  My face upon the paper was already finished, and was so exactly like me that I was immensely pleased with it.

The young man went on painting in the cool morning, singing as he worked, and sometimes looking from the open window at the glorious landscape.  I, in the meantime, spread myself another piece of bread and butter, and walked up and down the room, looking at the pictures leaning against the wall.  Two of them pleased me especially.  “Did you paint these, too?” I asked the painter.  “Not exactly,” he replied.  “They are by the famous masters Leonardo da Vinci and Guido Reni; but you know nothing about them.”  I was nettled by the conclusion of his remark.  “Oh,” I rejoined very composedly, “I know those two masters as well as I know myself.”  He opened his eyes at this.  “How so?” he asked hastily.  “Well,” said I, “I traveled with them day and night, on horseback, on foot, and driving at a pace that made the wind whistle in my ears, and I lost them both at an inn, and then traveled post alone in their coach, which went bumping on two wheels over the rocks, and—­” “Oho! oho!” the painter interrupted me, staring at me as if he thought me mad.  Then he suddenly burst into a fit of laughter.  “Ah,” he cried, “now I begin to understand.  You traveled with two painters called Guido and Lionardo?” When I assented, he sprang up and looked me all over from head to foot.  “I verily believe,” he said “that actually—­Can you play the violin?” I struck the pocket of my coat so