show of pretending to sketch the country through which we
were passing.

The old gentleman could stand it no longer.

"Monsieur," said he, angrily. "Monsieur, I will thank you not to take my
portrait. I object to it. Monsieur."

"Charming distance," said Mueller, addressing himself to me "Wants
interest, however, in the foreground. That's a picturesque tree yonder,
is it not?"

The old gentleman struck his umbrella sharply on the floor.

"It's of no use, Monsieur," he exclaimed, getting more red and excited.
"You are taking my portrait, and I object to it. I know you are taking
my portrait."

Mueller looked up dreamily.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur," said he. "Did you speak?'

"Yes, Monsieur. I did speak. I repeat that you shall not take my
portrait."

"Your portrait, Monsieur?"

"Yes, my portrait!"

"But, Monsieur," remonstrated the artist, with an air of mingled candor
and surprise, "I never dreamed of taking your portrait!"

"_Sacre non_!" shouted the old gentleman, with another rap of the
umbrella. "I saw you do it! Everybody saw you do It!"

"Nay, if Monsieur will but do me the honor to believe that I was simply
sketching from nature, as the train...."

"An impudent subterfuge, sir!" interrupted the old gentleman. "An
impudent subterfuge, and nothing less!"

Mueller drew himself up with immense dignity.

"Monsieur," he said, haughtily, "that is an expression which I must
request you to retract. I have already assured you, on the word of a
gentleman...."

"A gentleman, indeed! A pretty gentleman! He takes my portrait, and...."

"I have not taken your portrait, Monsieur."

"Good heavens!" cried the old gentleman, looking round, "was ever such
assurance! Did not every one present see him in the act? I appeal to
every one--to you, Monsieur--to you, Mesdames,--to you, reverend
father,--did you not all see this person taking my portrait?"

"Nay, then, if it must come to this," said Mueller, "let the sketch be
evidence, and let these ladies and gentlemen decide whether it is really
the portrait of Monsieur--and if they think it like?"

Saying which, he held up the book, and displayed a head, sketched, it is
true, with admirable spirit and cleverness, but--the head of an ass,
with a thistle in its mouth!

A simultaneous explosion of mirth followed. Even the priest laughed till
the tears ran down his cheeks, and Dalrymple, heavy-hearted as he was,
could not help joining in the general shout. A