There were two of them, evidently father and daughter, and they sat side by side upon a seat placed in an archway, and regarded hopelessly one of the finest works in the gallery. The father was a person undersized and elderly. His face was tanned and seamed, as if with years of rough outdoor labor; the effect produced upon him by his clothes was plainly one of actual suffering, both physical and mental. His stiff hands refused to meet the efforts of his gloves to fit them; his body shrank from his garments; if he had not been pathetic, he would have been ridiculous. But he was pathetic. It was evident he was not so attired of his own free will; that only a patient nature, inured by long custom to discomfort, sustained him; that he was in the gallery under protest; that he did not understand the paintings, and that they perplexed--overwhelmed him. The daughter it is almost impossible to describe, and yet I must attempt to describe her. She had a slender and pretty figure; there were slight marks of the sun on her face also, and, as in her father's case, the richness of her dress was set at defiance by a strong element of incongruousness. She had black hair and gray eyes, and she sat with folded hands staring at the picture before her in dumb uninterestedness. Clélie had taken up her brush again, and was touching up her work here and there. “They have been here two hours,” she said. “They are waiting for some one. At first they tried to look about them as others did. They wandered from seat to seat, and sat down, and looked as you see them doing now. What do you think of them? To what nation should you ascribe them?” “They are not French,” I answered. “And they are not English.” “If she were English,” said Clélie, “the girl would be more conscious of herself, and of what we might possibly be saying. She is only conscious that she is out of place and miserable. She does not care for us at all. I have never seen Americans like them before, but I am convinced that they are Americans.” She laid aside her working materials and proceeded to draw on her gloves. “We will go and look at that 'Tentation de St. Antoine' of Teniers,” she said, “and we may hear them speak. I confess I am devoured by an anxiety to hear them speak.” According, a few moments later an amiable young couple stood before “La Tentation,” regarding it with absorbed and critical glances. But the father and daughter did not seem to see us. They looked disconsolately about them, or at the picture before which they sat. Finally, however, we were rewarded by hearing them speak to each other. The father addressed the young lady slowly and deliberately, and with an accent which, but for my long residence in England and familiarity with some forms of its _patois_, I should find it impossible to transcribe. “Esmeraldy,” he said, “your ma's a long time acomin'.” “Yes,” answered the girl, with the same accent, and in a voice wholly listless and melancholy, “she's a long time.”