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kinds. One may often search them in vain for the great, recognized
masterpieces, while one may find a little, unconsidered picture in the
place of honor; and in order to understand the odd arrangement of many
of these small collections, one must take as one's cicerone the person
whose choice they represent. Here, now, is a picture from a private
gallery.--

There hung in a corner of the Salon of 1878 a picture by the English
painter Mr. Everton Sainsbury. It made no sensation whatever. It was
neither large enough nor small enough to arouse idle curiosity, nor was
there a trace of modern extravagance either in composition or in color.

As people passed they gave it a sympathetic glance, for it made
a harmonious impression, and the subject was familiar and easily
understood.

It represented two lovers who had slightly fallen out, and people smiled
as each in his own mind thought of those charming little quarrels which
are so vehement and so short, which arise from the most improbable and
most varied causes, but invariably end in a kiss.

And yet this picture attracted to itself its own special public; you
could see that it was adopted into several private collections.

As you made your way towards the well-known corner, you would often find
the place occupied by a solitary person standing lost in contemplation.
At different times, you would come upon all sorts of different people
thus absorbed; but they all had the same peculiar expression before that
picture, as if it cast a faded, yellowish reflection.

If you approached, the gazer would probably move away; it seemed as
though only one person at a time could enjoy that work of art--as though
one must be entirely alone with it.--

In a corner of the garden, right against the high wall, stands an open
summer-house. It is quite simply built of green lattice-work, which
forms a large arch backed by the wall. The whole summer-house is covered
with a wild vine, which twines itself from the left side over the arched
roof, and droops its slender branches on the right.

It is late autumn. The summer-house has already lost its thick roof of
foliage. Only the youngest and most delicate tendrils of the wild vine
have any leaves left. Before they fall, departing summer lavishes on
them all the color it has left; like light sprays of red and yellow
flowers, they hang yet a while to enrich the garden with autumn's
melancholy splendor.

The fallen leaves are scattered all