said you
speak English."

"Speak English--yes," said the old man slowly rubbing his hands. "I will
bring it in a cab."

"Say something, then," cried his daughter. "Thank him a little--not too
much."

"A little, my daughter, a little?" said M. Nioche perplexed. "How much?"

"Two thousand!" said Mademoiselle Noemie. "Don't make a fuss or he'll
take back his word."

"Two thousand!" cried the old man, and he began to fumble for his
snuff-box. He looked at Newman from head to foot; he looked at his
daughter and then at the picture. "Take care you don't spoil it!" he
cried almost sublimely.

"We must go home," said Mademoiselle Noemie. "This is a good day's work.
Take care how you carry it!" And she began to put up her utensils.

"How can I thank you?" said M. Nioche. "My English does not suffice."

"I wish I spoke French as well," said Newman, good-naturedly. "Your
daughter is very clever."

"Oh, sir!" and M. Nioche looked over his spectacles with tearful eyes
and nodded several times with a world of sadness. "She has had an
education--tres-superieure! Nothing was spared. Lessons in pastel at ten
francs the lesson, lessons in oil at twelve francs. I didn't look at the
francs then. She's an artiste, ah!"

"Do I understand you to say that you have had reverses?" asked Newman.

"Reverses? Oh, sir, misfortunes--terrible."

"Unsuccessful in business, eh?"

"Very unsuccessful, sir."

"Oh, never fear, you'll get on your legs again," said Newman cheerily.

The old man drooped his head on one side and looked at him with an
expression of pain, as if this were an unfeeling jest.

"What does he say?" demanded Mademoiselle Noemie.

M. Nioche took a pinch of snuff. "He says I will make my fortune again."

"Perhaps he will help you. And what else?"

"He says thou art very clever."

"It is very possible. You believe it yourself, my father?"

"Believe it, my daughter? With this evidence!" And the old man turned
afresh, with a staring, wondering homage, to the audacious daub on the
easel.

"Ask him, then, if he would not like to learn French."

"To learn French?"

"To take lessons."

"To take lessons, my daughter? From thee?"

"From you!"

"From me, my child? How should I give lessons?"

"Pas de raisons! Ask him immediately!" said Mademoiselle Noemie, with
soft brevity.

M. Nioche stood aghast, but under his daughter's eye he collected his
wits, and, doing his best to assume an agreeable smile, he execut