ary, lest delay should compromise the indispensable
immovable-ness of the performers.

'Now,' said Baroni, turning his head to the audience, and slightly
touching his violin, 'Christ falls under the weight of the cross.'
And immediately the curtain parted, and Sidonia beheld a group in the
highest style of art, and which though deprived of all the magic of
colour, almost expressed the passion of Correggio.

'It is Alfred,' said Baroni, as Sidonia evinced his admiration. 'He
chiefly arranges all this, under my instructions. In drapery his talent
is remarkable.'

At length, after a series of representations, which were all worthy of
being exhibited in the pavilions of princes, Baroni announced the last
scene.

'What you are going to see now is the Descent from the Cross; it is
after Rubens, one of the greatest masters that ever lived, if you
ever heard of such a person,' he added, in a grumbling voice, and then
turning to Sidonia, he said, 'This crucifixion is the only thing which
these savages seem at all to understand; but I should like you, sir,
as you are an artist, to see the children in some Greek or Roman story:
Pygmalion, or the Death of Agrippina. I think you would be pleased.'

'I cannot be more pleased than I am now,' said Sidonia. 'I am also
astonished.'

But here Baroni was obliged to scrape his fiddle, for the curtain moved.

'It is a triumph of art,' said Sidonia, as he beheld the immortal group
of Rubens reproduced with a precision and an exquisite feeling which no
language can sufficiently convey, or too much extol.

The performances were over, the little artists were summoned to the
front scene to be applauded, the scanty audience were dispersing:
Sidonia lingered.

'You are living in this house, I suppose?' he said to Baroni.

Baroni shook his head. 'I can afford no roof except my own.'

'And where is that?'

'On four wheels, on the green here. We are vagabonds, and, I suppose,
must always be so; but, being one family, we can bear it. I wish the
children to have a good supper to-night, in honour of your kindness. I
have a good deal to do. I must put these things in order,' as he spoke
he was working; 'there is the grandmother who lives with us; all this
time she is alone, guarded, however, by the dog. I should like them to
have meat to-night, if I can get it. Their mother cooks the supper.
Then I have got to hear them say their prayers. All this takes time,
particularly as we have to rise