w the mere taking his portrait would improve the
animal; but thinking it might be meant for a compliment, he assented,
adding that he would pay a fair price for himself and his friend to be
allowed to have the donkey, all saddled, for two or three hours every
day when he was not used.

That very day, about four o'clock in the afternoon, Caper and Dexter,
having prepared their sketching-paper, with colors on pallet,
mall-sticks in hand, and seated on camp-stools in the shade of a wall,
were busy sketching in Margarita's garden, the donkey held by the little
lame boy, and fed from time to time with corn-meal in order to keep him
steady. Margarita was seated, with a little child in her arms, on a
flight of old wooden steps leading to the second story of her house; and
with her bright crimson boddice, and white falling linen sleeves, and
shirt gathered in folds over her bosom, while her dark blue skirts, and
dark apron with brilliant gold and red stripes, were draped around her
as she sat on the stairs, looked exactly like one of Raphael's _Madonne
alla Fornarina_. Her large eyes followed seriously every movement of the
painters. Caper, learning that she was a widow, did not know but what
her affections were straying his way.

'I say, Dexter, don't you think, now, she's regarding us pretty
closely?'

'I am sure it's the donkey is next her heart, and it is more than
probable she's there on watch to keep us from stealing it. D'ye notice
the manner she's eyeing the paints? Every time my brush goes near the
vermilion, and I move my stool, her eyes brighten. I wonder what's up
around the gate there? Hanged if half the old women and children around
town an't assembled there! Look.'

Caper looked, and, sure enough, there was a crowd of heads; and not
content with standing at the gateway, they began soon to enter the
garden, crowding around our two artists, getting in front of the donkey,
and being generally in the way.

Once or twice Dexter drove them off with words, until at last, an
unlucky urchin striking his elbow and making him mar his sketch, he laid
down his sketching-box, and, clubbing his campstool, made a rush at the
crowd. They fled before him, in their hurry tumbling one over the other,
and then, scrambling to their feet, were soon out of sight. Returning to
his sketch, he was no sooner busily at work than they were all back
again, but now keeping at respectful distance.

After about two hours' work, Caper propo