“Are you going to live with us?” said the eldest, who was about eight years of age.
“I don’t know, my little friend.”
“O, I wish you would! It is so nice to stop in these mountains. There are plenty of beautiful flowers, and birds’ nests, too. I have three already; I will show them to you, and then we will go and find some more. But what is that you have got under your arm?”
“It is my sketch-book.”
“A sketch-book? What is a sketch-book?”
“It is what I carry my pictures in.”
“Pictures? O, do let me see them!”
“Yes, indeed; here they are.”
“What pretty pictures! O, mother, come and see! Here are mountains, and men, and goats. Did you make them all?”
Attracted by the call of the child, a lady came out of the principal tent. She was yet young, tall, and covered with a medley of garments from various costumes. Her face sparkled with energy, and might have been called beautiful. She threw a sad glance at Salvator, and approached him haughtily, as if to give an order. But seeing the two children busily looking over the sketch-book, and observing the familiar way with which both treated their new acquaintance, she appeared to change her manner somewhat, and began to look at the pictures herself, and to admire them. At the end of half an hour the mother and the children seemed like old friends of Salvator Rosa.