"Very often," replied McGuilp with a sigh; "nevertheless, there is a pleasure in the mere pursuit of art, however far removed the work of the artist may be from his ideal, that he would not exchange for the calm satisfaction of the uninitiated who perceive no fault." At this moment a sound of cheering and clapping of hands proceeding from the club-room interrupted the dialogue between the painter and his model. "What can all that noise mean?" ejaculated Helen. "Ah, I can guess. Mother has just finished telling her story to the gentlemen of the club, and they are applauding her." "Is it so, Helen?" said McGuilp. "Well, as they have been enjoying a story from which we have been excluded, I see no reason why we should not have a story all to ourselves. What do you say?" "Oh, by all means," said Helen; "but I am a poor storyteller. Pray do not ask _me_ for one, but if you know of a story, why of course I am all attention." "Let me see, then," said McGuilp. "What sort of story would you like to hear?" "Oh, tell me something about Italy. _I should_ like to hear so," answered Helen. "Would you? Then I think I can remember a little circumstance that occurred in Italy within my experience, which I will relate to you if you will resume your seat, for I have but little time to lose. We can work and talk at the same time. Your colour has now returned, and my story may possibly help to preserve it until the end of the sitting." Helen then resumed her seat, and McGuilp having seized once more his palette and brushes and placed himself in front of his easel, continued his portrait whilst he related the following story. FOOTNOTES: [1] Scharfrichter or executioner; literally, "the sharp judge." [2] The reader is begged to excuse the anachronism. Byron did not write these lines until several years later. [3] Another name for headsman or hangman. [4] Philister or Philistine. [5] The moss. Slang word among German students for money. [6] Loewen--also money. [Illustration] CHAPTER III. THE THREE PAULS.[7]--THE ARTIST'S THIRD STORY. During my travels in Italy I happened once to be sojourning for some time in an obscure and sequestered Italian village high up in the Apennines, that chain of mountains which runs through the entire peninsular like the backbone of some antediluvian monster. They are curious places, those Italian villages, with their tall, narrow houses and small windows, built up the slant of a mountain like steps of stairs. Their quaint roofs, balconies, arches, and buttresses, with at every step some rustic shrine containing a rude painting or representation of the Virgin Mary (the Madonna as they call her) or other saint. The narrow, dirty, ill-paved streets, the tumbling-down houses, from the windows of which the picturesque but dirty inhabitants may almost shake hands with one another across the road.