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seum, has been so judiciously restored that the most captious sentimentalist could not find fault with it. The marketplace, which at first sight seemed to be covered with a monstrous growth of white and yellow mushrooms of gigantic size, under each one of which was seated a woman with a collection of fruit and vegetables, was also a delight. The mushrooms, which on nearer inspection proved to be immense umbrellas, filled my companion with inextinguishable mirth. He laughed in a low, choking way at the sight of them, and half a dozen times that day the recollection of them moved him to solemn laughter. I could not understand why the umbrellas amused him so much. Several times he said softly to himself, "Those darned umberels!" and then chuckled. The memory of his laughter haunts me to this day. What on earth was the man laughing at? I shall never know, for he gave me no explanation, and now he has vanished from my world forever, taking the secret of the umbrellas with him.

The painter upon whom Brescia prides herself—and with good reason—is Moretto. There are a great many of his works in the churches and galleries, private and public, of Brescia. I induced my companion to enter the chief gallery with me, although he insisted that he detested pictures. However, there was one canvas that interested him. It was a St. Sebastian with rather more than the usual quantity of arrows, and my companion stopped before it and asked me what it represented. I told him the legend of the saint, and he laughed scornfully.

"So they set him up for a target and shot at him, did they?" he remarked, gazing at the picture. "Well! All I have to say is that they were mighty poor shots in those days. Just look at those arrows. There are about fifty of them, and only two have made a bull's-eye. The others are mostly outers, and bad outers at that. Why, there ain't a boy of twelve years old in the whole State of Minnesota who wouldn't be ashamed of