the two made a most curious sight,
seated together on one of the terraces on a sunny afternoon. Nothing
could be more diverse in appearance than this strangely assorted pair.
Carricchio was tall, with long limbs, and large aquiline features. He
wore a set smile upon his large expressive mouth, which seemed born of
no sense of enjoyment, but of an infinite insight, and of a mocking
friendliness. He seldom wore anything but the dress of his part; but he
wrapped himself mostly in a long cloak, lined with fur, for even the
northern sunshine seemed chilly to the old clown. Wrapped in this
ancient garment, he would sit beside Mark, listening to the boy's
stories with his deep unfathomed smile; and as he went on with his
histories, the boy used to look into his companion's face, wondering at
the slow smile, and at the deep wrinkles of the worn visage, till at
length, fascinated at the sight, he forgot his stories, and looking into
the old man's face appeared to Mark, though the comparison seems
preposterous, like gazing at the fated story of the mystic tracings of
the star-lit skies.

Why the old man listened so patiently to these childish stories no one
could tell; perhaps he did not hear them. He himself said that the
presence of Mark had the effect of music upon his jaded and worn sense.
But, indeed, there was beneath Carricchio's mechanical buffoonery and
farce a sober and pathetic humour, which was almost unconscious, and
which was now, probably owing to advancing years, first becoming known
either to himself or others.

"The Maestro has been talking to me this morning," he said one day. "He
says that life is a wretched masque, a miserable apology for existence
by the side of art; what do you say to that?"

"I do not know what it means," said Mark; "I neither know life nor art,
how can I tell?"

"That is true, but you know more than you think. The Maestro means that
life is imperfect, struggling, a failure, ugly most often; art is
perfect, complete, beautiful, and full of force and power. But I tell
him that some failure is better than success; sometimes ugliness is a
finer thing than beauty; and that the best art is that which only
reproduces life. If life were fashioned after the most perfect art you
would never be able to cry, nor to make me cry, as you do over your
beautiful tales."

Mark tried to understand this, but failed, and was therefore silent.
Indeed it is not certain whether Carricchio himself understo