"Because he is in England, and better employed," said the matter-of-fact Lady Di, very shortly.

paint them as they are, thinks Angelica. | and, my sweet Kauffmann, you can make But that is only Antonio's craze. Caracci the purchases. Ah! Diana! I know who and Guido, my great masters, have taught ought to be with us. Why is not Mr. me to see the ideal beauty that reality Reynolds of the party?" suggests; and once more she falls to work upon her poor little flimsy fancies - cut-paper flowers upon the altars of art. It is at any rate a peaceful state of mind in which the young painter works on, listening from afar to the voices from the city; when they cease there is the sound of the fountain plashing with a tender persistent lap, and brimming to the edge of the little stone basin; sometimes she hears the voices of the servants at their work, sometimes the fall of an oar comes to her with the fountain's ripple. If Angelica stretches from her corner, she sees the palaces clustering white, and the line of water very blue beyond the brown piles of brick and straggling sprays of ivy. The ilex sheds its aromatic perfume, light struggles through the waters of the fountain.

The gondola was waiting as usual at the corner; it took them but a very little way, and landed them on one of the quays. Lady W. glided out, followed by Angelica. The pavement was, as usual, crowded. The sun was deliciously white and hot, and a man with pomegranates stood opposite the broad steps that led from the water. Angel knew her way across the bridge, with all the people crowding so lazily and swinging their slow-measured pace, which seems to float with the waters of the canal. A woman stops short, leans over the rail, and slowly eats a bunch of grapes, dropping the stems into the water. Then they come into a beautiful arched and Byzan From time to time the little girl comes tine shadow (how many hundred years up to peep at Angelica's paint-box- at old is the shadow, the archway?). A dithe steady paint-brush working on; then shevelled statue, with black hair and a she runs back; her very steps stir sleep-wan brown face, is leaning against a well. ing perfumes among the leaves. These As Angelica passed with her companion, strange sweet scents from the garden are a poem in themselves, now fresh, now ravishing into utter fragrance. The child becomes impatient of it all at last; she pulls a long branch, and begins to beat at all this sleeping monotony.

"Take care, child; what are you about?" cries a voice less modulated than usual. Little Charlotte runs away frightened, and the ambassadress, somewhat put out by the difficulties of her toilet, appears upon the terrace issuing from a side-door, and stands, tapping her little foot impatiently, at the window where Angel is at work.

the figure moved its rags and looked hard into their faces. They seem to cross a century of centuries, as they pass under deep-blue skies, and so through back streets come into the market.

All the pictures out of all the churches were buying and selling in their busy market; Virgins went by, carrying their Infants; St. Peter is bargaining his silver fish; Judas is making a low bow to a fat old monk, who holds up his brown skirts and steps with bare legs into a mysteri ous black gondola that had been waiting by the bridge, and that silently glides away. Lady W. was enchanted, admired, and exclaimed at everything.

"Are you ready?" said Angel, looking up. She had the rare gift of never losing "Now for our marketing," she said. her presence of mind, and other people's" Angelica, where does one buy fish?” flurries did not affect her greatly. As she spoke she suddenly exclaimed at "I have had endless difficulties with a girl who came quietly through the my dress," said Lady W., who was in-crowd, carrying her head nobly above deed strangely transformed. "See here, the rest. It was a sweet, generous face. Diana; shall I be recognized? What "What a beautiful creature! Brava, will be thought of me if I am recog-brava!" shrieked Lady W. The girl nized?"

"That you do not look near so well as usual," said Lady Diana, coming up.

"But why should you not be recognized?" said Angelica, painting on.

"A basket!" cried Lady W., suddenly, without listening to either of them. "Do, child, go and ask Mrs. Meadows for a basket. I will carry a basket on my arm,

hung her sweet head and blushed. Titian's mother, out of the "Presentation," who was sitting by with her basket of eggs, smiled and patted the young Madonna on her shoulder. "They are only saying good things; they mean no harm," said the old woman.

Then a cripple went along on his crutches; then came a woman carrying a

beautiful little boy, with a sort of turban round his head. Angelica put out her hand and gave the child a carnation as he passed. One corner of the market is given up to great hobgoblin pumpkins; tomatoes are heaped in the stalls; oranges and limes are not yet over; but perhaps the fish-stalls are the prettiest of all. Silver fish tied up in stars with olive-green leaves, golden fish, as in miracles; noble people serving. There are the jewellers' shops too, but their wares do not glitter so brightly as all this natural beautiful gold and silver. Lady W. bought fish, bought fruit. She would have liked to carry home the whole market.

CHAPTER VI.

429

ANGEL AND HER FRIENDS. THE ambassadress was charmed with the girl - her sweetness, her intelligence, and her bright artistic soul. This lady, who was not troubled by diffidence of judgment, invested whatever she took an interest in with a special grace, and the persons who frequented her intimacy invariably responded to her lead. Count de Horn, that silent and somewhat melodramatic personage, seemed usually too much absorbed in his hostess when he called to notice any one else, but he gravely allowed that the Kauffmann was charming. His Excellency, who always There was one little shop where an old followed his wife's lead, was enthusiastic Rembrandt-like Jew was installed among too, and, busy as he was comparing crucifixes, crystals, old laces, buckles, watches and arranging everybody's afand jimcracks of every description. A fairs, he found time to have his picture little silver chain hanging in a case in the painted by the girl, upon whose shoulwindow took the ambassadress's fancy. ders his lovely wife had cast her own "I should vastly like a talk with that pic-glamorous mantle. So it happened that turesque old man," said she. "Did you Angelica Kauffmann, a painter's daughter, ever see anything so venerable?"

Angelica smiled. "I know him very well; he is one of my patrons. His name is Giuseppe Morosco; but he is not so wise as his looks."

had become the friend and companion of no less a person than the wife of the English ambassador in Venice. She found herself suddenly adopted by this impatient and beautiful woman, and inThe two ladies made their way introduced into a world which she had only with some difficulty, for the place was suspected before, although she may have narrow and crowded with things. An-invented it for herself in former daygelica shook hands with the old broker quite unaffectedly; he was surprised to see her come to buy instead of to sell. When she asked the price of the silver beads, the old Rembrandt brought out a pair of glistening brass scales, in which he gravely weighed the chain. A priest and an old wife came from a corner of the inner shop to watch; the bargain might have been prolonged, if Lady W. had not put down a bit of shining gold upon the old brown counter.

"You must always wear this chain for my sake, and in remembrance of to-day," she said, turning to Angel, and with her quick gentle hands she flung the silver beads over the young girl's head.

For an instant the silver flashed in the darkness, then the silk broke, and the shower fell all about the room.

"You see your kindness is everywhere," said Angelica, gratefully, as she stooped to gather the rolling beads from the floor of the shop.

dreams. She painted the ambassadress and the children. Lady Diana did not like her pictures, and would not have her portrait taken, so the ambassadress told Angelica (and Lady Diana's manner plainly corroborated the statement); but whatever poor Lady Diana may have felt, the ambassadress was unchanging.

The damask gondola would come at all hours of the day, silently sliding to steps near the little house where Angelica was living. Old John Joseph was not unaware of the advantages to be derived from such patronage. This was not the first time that they had lived with great people. Had not Angelica painted Monsignor Nevroni, at Como? His Eminence the Cardinal-Bishop of Constance ? Had they not stayed with him in his palace, and been treated as guests? Was not Angelica conferring a favor upon those who patronized her? Had not the great Winkelman accorded her distinguished interest and friendship when they met on their travels? No one who ever knew her passed her by unnoticed; and she was his work, old Kauffmann would say the daughter and pride of his old age.

-

Antonio's sarcastic forebodings would friends for their kindness far more than

be cut very short by the old man.

"Eh! it is good for her to make friends; now is the time; she will get magnificent orders. You can't give her orders, Antonio, my poor fellow; you never get one from year's end to year's end."

for what she could gain from them. Those occhi azzurri, of which her old friend wrote, so bright, so placid, danced with happiness; it was all new, all delightful. When she was tired of sitting and being painted, Angelica's patroness would carry her off on long expeditions The old painter had failed himself, and from church to church, from picture to did not disguise his failure. He was am- picture. It was a curious restless love bitious now for his Angel; in some vague of art that seemed to possess Lady W., way he had come to consider her works and one which Angelica could not altoand her success his own. When people gether understand. But however this praised her, and wondered at her courage might be, life, which had been a struggle and application, her father tacitly assumed for existence hitherto, suddenly became the whole credit. "A good girl-good complete in itself and easy to her; she girl," he would say. "She has inherent herself seemed to have found some new genius, and she has been carefully taught; power of seeing and feeling and enjoybut she must work and deserve her suc-ment; the very works of art seemed to cess; and the girl sweet, bright, obedi-gain in beauty and in meaning. It is ent, wilful at times, but accustomed to almost impossible to write the charm of the parental rule, never thought of rebel- some of those long days following one ling against somewhat arbitrary decisions, by one, floating from light to light, moons which condemned her to such unremitting and stars slowly waning, to tender break toil. She loved her work- she was not of dawn, melody of bells calling to the afraid of fatigue; her health was deli-old churches with the green weeds driftcate, but she was of good constitution, ing from their lintels and crannies. full of life and vitality, and able to endure. Her temper was very sweet -a little wilful perhaps to other people, but she bore her father's reproofs with the greatest sweetness. His love made it all only a part of love, and when he admired, and thought her work marvellous, Angel only said humbly to herself that there was never such a tender foolish old father as hers, and she would laugh and make some happy little joke, and go her way unscathed.

--

The old priests, too, with their solemn hyperboles and compliments, had all seemed so much a matter of course that she never seriously attended to any one of their long-winded laudations. It was as much a matter of course as the scrolls on the frames of her picture. But this new state of things was very different. She felt curiously excited unlike herself; she was a credulous woman; surely there was some meaning in all these compliments, in M. de Horn's expressive looks, and Lady W.'s unconcealed admiration. It was a new experience altogether delightful, intoxicating. The sweet English voices with their guttural notes struck her ear very pleasantly; it seemed to Angelica like the sound of the water answering to the oar.

Are they falling into ruin, those old Italian churches? Are the pictures fading from their canvas in the darkened corners? I think they have only walked away from their niches in the chapels into the grass-grown piazzas outside. There is the broad back of Tintoretto's Virgin in that sunny corner; her pretty attendant train of angels are at play upon the grass. There is Joseph standing in the shadow with folded arms. Is that a bronze that dark lissom figure lying motionless on the marble step that leads to the great entrance. The bronze turns in its sleep; a white dove comes flying out of the picture by the high altar with sacred lights illumined; is it only one of the old sacristan's pigeons coming to be fed? By the water-beaten steps a fisherman is mooring his craft. St. John and St. James are piling up their store of faggots. In this wondrous vision of Italy, when the church-doors open wide, the saints and miracles come streaming out into the world.

One day the ambassadress, who had scarcely been satisfied about Antonio, mentioned him again, and began asking rather curiously who he was, and whether Angelica was certain that she was not engaged to him in any way?

She had made more money in this last "Antonio! He is always with us. He week than in all the month; she had is much too cross ever to fall in love with been at work in the gallery before, but anybody, or for anybody to think of fallshe felt as if she loved these kind new ling in love with him. My father once

dler on his way had struck up a country tune, to the call of which the children were hastening, but the youngest, a mere baby, suddenly stopped and began to dance upon the marble tomb with some pretty flying patter of little steps. The little ragged sister dragged the baby, still dancing, away, and the two straggled out

"Did you see them?" said Angelica, greatly touched.

had some idea of the sort, but Antonio | aldry and engraved into eternal glory. entreated him never to mention anything Outside, in the flaring Piazza, some fidso absurd again. I may never marry, and anyhow it would be great waste to marry such a true friend as Antonio." "Listen, Angelica," said the ambassadress, very earnestly. "If you marry, it must be somebody worthy of you, somebody who will be a real companion and a new interpreter of life-not Mr. Antonio, not M. de Horn (who admires you ex-by the curtained door into the Piazza. tremely, as you know very well, you wicked child; even Milady Di, who never sees anything, was struck by his "Poor little wretches," said the ammanner). But no, there is some one bassadress; "there should be railings you have never seen, whom I will not round the tombs. Come, dearest creaname. I have had a dream, child-Iture, let us ask for our picture." saw you both ruling together in a noble temple of art. My dear creature, I had a letter from the nameless gentleman this morning-a charming letter- he asks many questions about you. There is a picture he wishes you not to miss seeing on any account; come, let us go and look at it. You shall judge whether or not he has good taste in art."

Angelica wondered where they were going to, and could not help speculating a little as to this unknown cicerone who seemed to have directed their morning's expedition. The gondola stopped at the Piazza where the great church of the Frari stands rearing its stupendous bricks upon the depths.

"I approve of your friend's taste," said the young painter to herself.

To Angelica it was always a sensation when she walked from the blazing sun and labouring life without into these solemn enclosures. Here are the tombs of the doges resting from their rule. They seem pondering still as they lie carved in stately marbled death, contemplating the past with their calm brows and their hooked noses. The great church is piled arch upon arch, tomb beyond tomb; some of these monuments hang in the nave high over the heads of the people as they kneel; above the city and its cries, and its circling life, and the steps of the easy-going Venetians.

"It must be in here," said Angelica, without troubling herself to ask, and she led the way into a side-chapel. "How do you know? Yes, this must be the picture," said Lady W., referring to a letter; some inspiration must have told you. 'Grandeur and simplicity,' he writes that tells one nothing. Yes, here it is, 'The Virgin Altar; St. Peter with an open book. . . .

66

"This is the picture, of course," said Angelica; and the girl looks up, the noble Cornari heads bend in reverent conclave before the gracious and splendid Madonna. How measured and liberal it all is; what a stately self-respect and reverence for others. She feels it, and yet can scarce grasp the impression before her. Her breath came quickly hundred fancies rose before her eyes.

-a

"I wish I could paint you as you look now, child, and send the picture back to my friend in return for his letter," said Lady W., with a gentle playful tap of her fan."

For once Angelica was provoked by the interruption; a moment more, and it seemed to her that something might have come to her, some certainty that she had never reached. She turned with vague eyes and looked at her protectress.

From Fraser's Magazine. GERMAN HOME LIFE.

BY A LADY.

As the ladies walked up the great transept, two little barefooted children, hand in hand, came pattering softly along the marble pavement; they passed beneath the tombs of the doges; they made for an open door, where only a curtain swung, dark against all the blaze without. The rays of light came through on every side, streaking the flat marble monument of some defunct Venetian buried there in ter and man, mistress and maid, form a the centre aisle with all dignity and her-vexed question, and a highly interesting

I.
SERVANTS.

THE mutual obligations between mas

one to many. The labourer has voted | manners, or improve their condition, with himself worthy of better hire and been a loutish ridicule.

fighting his battle; the artisan his; the Two instances occur to me as I write miner has contributed to raise the price these words which will illustrate my of coal and iron; the clerk and the shop-meaning. Having a very delicate child, man nowadays enjoy privileges of which I brought for him from England a peramtheir predecessors did not venture to bulator, and told the nurse, as he was dream. There is little danger of the fair not allowed to walk and I would not perclaims of domestic servants being over- mit him to be swathed up in a mantle looked. But, on the whole, perhaps the and carried for hours with his spine dismistresses have the better reason to torted (after the fashion in that part of "strike" of the two- the mistresses, the country), that she could take him out more especially of middle-class house-daily in his little carriage. She said holds, where high (and daily increasing) nothing, but the next day I saw her, as prices in food, coals, and rent are not usual, swathing him up in her mantle. I met by any proportionate increase of in-interfered, and reminded her of the percome. In fact, the eagerness with which ambulator. She stolidly refused to use poor ladies seek situations as telegraph it. I insisted, but to no effect. “Die clerks, accountants, post-office employées ganze Stadt wird mich auslachen," was and cashiers, certainly leads one to all I could get from her, and she departed regard with amazement the modesty in triumph with the child in her mantle, and eagerness to work of the one class in to recount her exploits to her gossips, contrast with the encroachments and pre- and to laugh at my English new-fangledtensions of the other. We are apt to think ness. The next day the same represenof foreign, or at any rate of French ser- tations, the same remonstrances, and the vants, that they are cleaner, pleasanter, same result. The third day she remarked more easily satisfied, more amenable to that she would rather go than be made reason, less boorish, and possessed of the laughing-stock of the other nursefiner tact than are our English domestics. maids; and upon my telling her that I This may be so, though I cannot help had no objection to her going, provided fancying that the difference lies a great she would do so at once, she calmly redeal in difference of locality, and that we, minded me that as servants only changed in going to live abroad, are prepared to their places on quarter-day, she would leave many of our habits and prejudices certainly not give up board and lodging behind, and to accept, on foreign shores, and wages to please a fancy of mine. So, that which we should unhesitatingly re- as I could not allow the child to be inject within our own borders. jured, I had no alternative but to take him out myself; the recalcitrant Jette walking sulkily by my side whilst I wheeled the perambulator. I was ridiculed, of course, by gentle as well as simple; but I took pains to reason with my new nursemaid as to this part of her duties, pointing out to her how much pleasanter and less fatiguing it must be to use the perambulator than to carry a heavy child for hours in her arms. It is only fair to add that at least twenty nursemaids refused the situation when they heard of the conditions attached to it. Perambulators are now doubtless as popular in Germany as elsewhere; but at that time they had not even been heard of in the remote town where I was sojourning.

German servants, and I can speak from many years' experience, are certainly not pleasant in their "commerce," nor easy to get on with. They have none of that bright French amiability (lip-service though it may be) which is so sympathetic, smooths away so many domestic difficulties, and recommends itself so pleasantly to a mistress's gratitude and recognition. The schools throughout Germany are numerous, excellent, and cheap. The poorest children must receive a fair amount of education, where education is compulsory and the fines for non-attendance severe; they are taught to read and write, to spell decently, and even the higher branches of culture are not altogether neglected; but they are turned out hopelessly uncouth; coarse in manner, and unhandy at their work; often incorrigibly dirty, without aptitude or willingness to learn, doggedly satisfied with themselves, and convinced that the right thing to do is to treat any attempt on your part to ameliorate their

Being much exercised in my mind as to the discomfort of the servants' meals, I bought them tablecloths, and had a table and some chairs placed in a small room near the kitchen, where I begged them to sit down to a cleanly-spread table, taking their food at one time, with