ort, and those purple
mountains in the distance are part of the Taunus range. Here is an old
mediaeval gateway at Solothurn, in Switzerland. This wild heath near the
sea is in the neighborhood of Biscay. This quaint knot of ruinous houses
in a weed-grown Court was sketched at Bruges. Do you see that milk-girl
with her scarlet petticoat and Flemish _faille?_ She supplied us with
milk, and her dairy was up that dark archway. She stood for me several
times, when I wanted a foreground figure."

"You have travelled a great deal," I said. "Were you long in Belgium?"

"Yes; I lived there for some years. I was first pupil, then teacher, in
a large school in Brussels. I was afterwards governess in a private
family in Bruges. Of late, however, I have preferred to live in Paris,
and give morning lessons. I have more liberty thus, and more leisure."

"And these two little quaint bronze figures?"

"Hans Sachs and Peter Vischer. I brought them from Nuremberg. Hans
Sachs, you see, wears a furred robe, and presses a book to his breast.
He does not look in the least like a cobbler. Peter Vischer, on the
contrary, wears his leather apron and carries his mallet in his hand.
Artist and iron-smith, he glories in his trade, and looks as sturdy a
little burgher as one would wish to see."

"And this statuette in green marble?"

"A copy of the celebrated 'Pensiero' of Michel Angelo--in other words,
the famous sitting statue of Lorenzo de Medici, in the Medicean chapel
in Florence. I had it executed for me on the spot by Bazzanti."

"A noble figure!"

"Indeed it is--a noble figure, instinct with life, and strength, and
meditation. My first thought on seeing the original was that I would not
for worlds be condemned to pass a night alone with it. I should every
moment expect the musing hand to drop away from the stern mouth, and the
eyes to turn upon me!"

"These," said I, pausing at the chimney-piece, "are _souvenirs_ of
Switzerland. How delicately those chamois are carved out of the hard
wood! They almost seem to snuff the mountain air! But here is a rapier
with a hilt of ornamented steel--where did this come from?"

I had purposely led up the conversation to this point. I had patiently
questioned and examined for the sake of this one inquiry, and I waited
her reply as if my life hung on it.

Her whole countenance changed. She took it down, and her eyes filled
with tears.

"It was my father's," she said, tenderly.

"Your father's