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 with a row of houses—offices and factories—in grey-green and brick-red colouring. To the right were some workshops; behind them rose the walls of some big houses against a rich blue sky, with a few departing rain clouds, leaden grey in colour, but shining white where the sun came through. There was a strong light on the shops and the wall, and on the young foliage of some trees in a yard. A few men, some wagons and fruit barrows stood about in the street.

"I don't know much about it, but is it not very good? I think it is fine—it is beautiful."

"When I was wandering about waiting for my own boy—after walking here so lonely and sad many a spring before—and saw the maples and the chestnuts opening out their tender leaves against the smoky houses and red walls under a golden spring sky, I wanted to paint it."

"Where did you get the view?"

"Stenersgaten. You see, your father spoke about a picture of you as a boy, which he kept in his office. I went down there to have a look at it, and then I saw this view from his office window. They let me stand in the box factory next door to paint it, but I had to change it a bit—compose a little."

"You have been a good deal with father, I see," said Helge after a pause. "I suppose he is very interested in your picture?"

"Yes. He often came over to look while I was working on it, and gave me some good advice. He knows a lot about painting, of course."

"Do you think father had any talent?" asked Helge.

"Oh yes, I believe so. The pictures hanging in your home are not particularly good, but he let me see some studies he keeps in his office, and I think they show a refined and quite original talent. He would never have been a great artist; he is too susceptible to influence, but I think it is because of his