"She remained standing behind me, following all my gestures with
concentrated attention. Then, suddenly, fearing perhaps that she was
disturbing me, she said: 'Thank you,' and walked away.

"But she soon became more friendly, and accompanied me every day, her
countenance exhibiting visible pleasure. She carried her camp stool under
her arm, not permitting me to carry it. She would remain there for hours,
silent and motionless, following with her eyes the point of my brush, in
its every movement. When I obtained unexpectedly just the effect I wanted
by a dash of color put on with the palette knife, she involuntarily
uttered a little 'Ah!' of astonishment, of joy, of admiration. She had
the most tender respect for my canvases, an almost religious respect for
that human reproduction of a part of nature's work divine. My studies
appeared to her a kind of religious pictures, and sometimes she spoke to
me of God, with the idea of converting me.

"Oh, he was a queer, good-natured being, this God of hers! He was a sort
of village philosopher without any great resources and without great
power, for she always figured him to herself as inconsolable over
injustices committed under his eyes, as though he were powerless to
prevent them.

"She was, however, on excellent terms with him, affecting even to be the
confidante of his secrets and of his troubles. She would say:

"'God wills' or 'God does not will,' just like a sergeant announcing to a
recruit: 'The colonel has commanded.'

"At the bottom of her heart she deplored my ignorance of the intentions