"But I'm not going to leave you for a long time. I haven't seen you paint for weeks and weeks,--not since this little troublesome thing came poking in between us." "But she's not dressed yet." "That doesn't signify. She's well wrapped up, and quite warm." He put me a chair where I could see his picture without catching the shine of the paint. I took the baby from him, and he went on with his work. "You don't think I am going to sacrifice all my privileges to this little tyrant, do you?" I said. "It would be rather hard for me, at least," he rejoined. "You did think I was neglecting you, then, Percivale?" "Not for a moment." "Then you didn't miss me?" "I did, very much." "And you didn't grumble?" "No." "Do I disturb you?" I asked, after a little pause. "Can you paint just as well when I am here as when you are alone?" "Better. I feel warmer to my work somehow." I was satisfied, and held my peace. When I am best pleased I don't want to talk. But Percivale, perhaps not having found this out yet, looked anxiously in my face; and, as at the moment my eyes were fixed on his picture, I thought he wanted to find out whether I liked the design. "I see it now!" I cried. "I could not make out where the Magi were." He had taken for the scene of his picture an old farm kitchen, or yeoman's hall, with its rich brown rafters, its fire on the hearth, and its red brick floor. A tub half full of bright water, stood on one side; and the mother was bending over her baby, which, undressed for the bath, she was holding out for the admiration of the Magi. Immediately behind the mother stood, in the garb of a shepherd, my father, leaning on the ordinary shepherd's crook; my mother, like a peasant-woman in her Sunday-best, with a white handkerchief crossed upon her bosom, stood beside him, and both were gazing with a chastened yet profound pleasure on the lovely child. In front stood two boys and a girl,--between the ages of five and nine,--gazing each with a peculiar wondering delight on the baby. The youngest boy, with a great spotted wooden horse in his hand, was approaching to embrace the infant in such fashion as made the toy look dangerous, and the left hand of the mother was lifted with a motion of warning and defence. The little girl, the next youngest, had, in her absorption, dropped her gaudily dressed doll at her feet, and stood sucking her thumb, her big blue eyes wide with contemplation. The eldest boy had brought his white rabbit to give the baby, but had forgotten all about it, so full was his heart of his new brother. An expression of mingled love and wonder and perplexity had already begun to dawn upon the face, but it was as yet far from finished. He stood behind the other two peeping over their heads. "Were you thinking of that Titian in the Louvre, with the white rabbit in it?" I asked Percivale.