It was a rare picture.  The rift within the lute was out of sight upstairs, and there was nothing to disturb the harmony of perfection.  The child saw us, and immediately held out his little arms with a confiding gesture and a crow of delight that would have won over the sternest misanthropist, as if he recognised us for old friends between whom there existed a large amount of affection and an excellent understanding.  His father threw down his chisel, and catching him up in his arms perched him upon his shoulder and ran him up and down the room, while the little fellow shrieked with happiness.  Then both disappeared up the staircase, the child looking, in all his loveliness, as if he would ask us to follow—­a perfect representation of trust and contentment, as he felt himself borne upwards, safe and secure from danger, in the strong arms of his natural protector.

The old man turned to us with a sigh.  Was he thinking of his own past youth, when he, too, was once the principal actor in a counterpart scene?  Or of a day, which could not be very far off, when such a scene as this and all earthly scenes must for him for ever pass away?  Or of the little rift within the lute?  Who could tell?

“So, sirs, you are back once more,” was all he remarked.  “Have you seen Roscoff?  Was I not right in praising it?”

“You were, indeed,” we replied.  “It is full of indescribable beauty and interest.  Why is it so little known?”

“Because there are so few true artists in the world,” he answered.  “It cannot appeal to any other temperament.  Those who see things only with the eyes and not with the soul, will never care for it.  And so it has made no noise in the world, and few visit it.  Of those who do, probably many think more of the wonderful fig tree than of the exquisite tone of the houses, the charm of the little port, the matchless purity of the water.”

We felt he was right.  Then he pointed to the marvellous crucifix that hung upon the wall, and seemed by its beauty and sacredness almost to sanctify the room.

“Is it not a wonderful piece of art?” he cried, with quiet enthusiasm.  “If Michel Angelo had ever carved in ivory, I should say it was his work.  But be that as it may, it is the production of a great master.”

We promised to return.  There was something about the old man and his surroundings which compelled one to do so.  It was so rare to find three generations of perfection, about whom there clung a charm indescribable as the perfume that clings to the rose.  We passed out into the night, and our last look showed him standing in his quaint little territory, thrown out in strong relief by the lamplight, gazing in rapt devotion upon his treasures, all the religious fervour of the true Breton temperament shining out of his spiritual face, thinking perhaps of the “one far-off Divine event” that for him was growing so very near.

A SOCIAL DEBUT.