"You goin' see a picture now," he said, in a modestly triumphant tone. "Come in," he added, as Claude would have passed the studio door. They went in together. The Spaniard talked; Claude scarcely spoke. I cannot repeat the conversation literally, but the facts are these: A few evenings before, the artist had been one of the guests at a musical party given by a lady whose name he did not mention. He happened--he modestly believed it accidental--to be seated beside the hostess, when a young lady--"jung Creole la-thy," he called her--who was spending a few days with her, played the violin. The Spaniard's delicate propriety left her also nameless; but he explained that, as he understood, she was from the Teche. She played charmingly--"for an amateur," he qualified: but what had struck him more than the music was her beauty, her figure, her picturesque grace. And when he confessed his delight in these, his hostess, seemingly on the inspiration of the moment, said: "Paint her picture! Paint her just so! I'll give you the order. Not a mere portrait--a picture." And he had agreed, and the "jung" lady had consented. The two had but just now left the studio. To-morrow a servant would bring violin, music-rack, etc.; the ladies would follow, and then-- "You hear music, anyhow," said the artist. That was his gentle way of intimating that Claude was not invited to be a looker-on. On the next day, Claude, in his nook above, with the studio below shut from view by the curtain of his inner window, heard the ladies come. He knows they are these two, for one voice, the elder, blooms out at once in a gay abundance of words, and the other speaks in soft, low tones that, before they reach his ear, run indistinguishably together. Soon there comes the sound of tuning the violin, while the older voice is still heard praising one thing and another, and asking careless questions. "I suppose that cotton cloth covers something that is to have a public unveiling some day, doesn't it?" Claude cannot hear the answer; the painter drops his voice even below its usual quiet tone. But Claude knows what he must be saying; that the cloth covers merely a portrait he is finishing of a young man who has sat for it to please a wifeless, and, but for him, childless, and fondly devoted father. And now he can tell by the masculine step, and the lady's one or two lively words, that the artist has drawn away the covering from his (Claude's) own portrait. But the lady's young companion goes on tuning her instrument--"tink, tink, tink;" and now the bow is drawn. "Why, how singular!" exclaims the elder lady. "Why, my dear, come here and see! Somebody has got your eyes! Why, he's got your whole state of mind, a reduplication of it. And--I declare, he looks almost as good as you do! If--I"--