In front sat Jonah under his golden-tinted gourd--an ill-tempered Flemish peasant--while behind him the indented roofs of the Flemish town climbed the whole height of the background.

It was probably the artist's native town; some roof among those carefully-outlined gables sheltered his own household Lares.

But the hill on which the town stood, and the mountainous background and the purple sea, were the hills and the sea not of Belgium, but of a dream country--of Italy, perhaps, the medieval artist's paradise.
'Happy man!' said Forbes, turning to Miss Bretherton; 'look, he put it together four centuries ago, all he knew and all he dreamt of.

And there it is to this day, and beyond the spirit of that window there is no getting.

For all our work, if we do it honestly, is a compound of what we know and what we dream.' Miss Bretherton looked at him curiously.