"Where does this Anton live?" said Florence; "he would perhaps like to see the Fraulein paint. She has learned in the greatest painting-schools in the world, and has had the makers of the most beautiful pictures to show her how they did it."
"He will be here to get his dinner by and by. He has no parents or home, poor boy! he is a good lad, though queer at times, and I am glad to have him to live with me. Ah, here he comes now!" she exclaimed. "Hans ran to fetch him, I see, and has told him about the beautiful lady and the picture."
At the same moment there appeared, through the back doorway of the house, the figure of a tall young peasant, not dressed in rough farming clothes, but in a nearer approach to the holiday attire of the Tyrolean of that vicinity. He wore corduroy knee breeches, gray stockings, and a brown coat which flared over a red waistcoat and broad striped belt. The facings of his coat were also striped with red, as were his sleeves about the hands. On his head was the wide Tyrolean hat of tan-colored felt, faced with bright green, and trimmed with a bright green ribbon, with streamers falling behind.
As he noiselessly entered the room and stood gazing at the beautiful figure whose back was turned to him, he seemed not to see it, or be conscious of the others who were present, for his eyes fixed themselves eagerly on the canvas, and, as he looked, the eagerness deepened and strengthened, until it changed into a radiance of delight that seemed scarcely unmixed with awe.
As if unconscious of himself and his own act, he slowly removed his hat and stood bareheaded and as if spellbound in his place, his gaze fairly devouring the picture.
"The saints preserve us!" whispered the woman. "What a strange lad this Anton is! one would think it was the Holy Virgin herself, in the picture, instead of those old pans!"
"I don't think it is the subject that interests him so," said Florence, "I think it is because he has never seen painting like that done before. The Fraulein is a beautiful painter, and he—being a painter himself—would be quick to see that."
Ethel, meanwhile, painted on unconscious. She was always wholly absorbed in her work when it was "going," and Florence knew that she had been as oblivious as sleep could have made her of all that had happened around her.
But now, becoming conscious of her cramped position, and also of the fact that she had successfully secured her impression, which was all that she had aimed at, she laid her palette down, and, rising, turned and looked about her. Satisfaction in her work had made her feel very content, and she remembered also her obligation to these good people, and the two things made her always beautiful smile now seem unusually winning, as it rested upon Anton, who had advanced nearer to her than had the others, and who now turned his worshiping gaze from the picture to the painter's lovely face.
So ardent, concentrated, eager was that gaze that Ethel flushed under it, looking lovelier than ever. Turning to the group who stood near Florence across the room, she seemed, by a look, to ask an explanation.