Here and there, secluded in distant corners, sitting or standing near favorite pictures, which they have come to love as though they were their own, are the true art lovers, the copyists, who spend weeks, months, sometimes years in futile attempts to transfer to modern canvas the wonderful transparent coloring of a Tintoretto, a da Vinci or a Raphael. They are of both sexes. Some are old and others are young. One is a venerable old man, with long, snow-white hair and patriarchal beard, who for half a century has earned a scant living copying the masters. Others are neatly dressed, slim-looking girls--art students of all nations--timidly trying to reproduce works whose fame has rung around the world. Monday is the copyists' favorite day, for then the great Museum is closed to the general public, and by special permission the artists have the huge palace and its precious contents all to themselves. They are not annoyed by the crowding and rude staring of thoughtless strangers. Bent over their easels, they are alone in the great palace, amid silence as heavy and impressive as that in a church. Perched on top of a high stool, her fingers skillfully, yet delicately plying the brush, a young woman sat copying one of Raphael's Madonnas. The picture showed the Virgin, radiant and beatified, holding the chubby Infant Jesus, while Joseph, slightly in the background, looks benignly on. The coloring in the original was wonderful. The transparent blue of Mary's gown, the living flesh tints of both mother and Child were well-nigh unattainable with modern pigments, and the young artist, descending from the stool to get a better perspective, made a gesture of discouragement as she realized how far her own work fell short. She was a tall, striking-looking brunette with large dark eyes and classic features crowned by a mass of black hair, carelessly yet not unbecomingly arranged. Her girlish, slender figure suggested youth, while the delicate features and a broad intellectual forehead indicated refinement and more than average intelligence. Dressed in deep mourning, the sombre garments emphasized still more sharply the extreme pallor of her face. Her eyes were red as if from recent weeping. Just now, however, her thoughts were concentrated on the important work on hand, and so engrossed was she in her painting that she did not hear a man's approaching footsteps. He was close up to her before she was aware of his proximity. "Well, Paula," he called out in stentorian tones, "how is it going?" Startled, the young girl turned quickly. When she saw who it was, her face broke into a smile. "Oh, Mr. Ricaby, how you frightened me! I did not hear you coming. These galleries are so lonely that even one's friends scare one." Pointing to the canvas resting on the easel in front of her, she exclaimed gleefully: "See how hard I've been working!"