ThosewholookedupfromtheirlowerlevelastheypassedalongtheruedelaCitemighthaveseen，onallfinedays，thedaughteroftheSauviatssittingatheropenwindow，sewing，embroidering，orprickingtheneedlethroughthecanvasofherworsted—work，withalookthatwasoftendreamy。Herheadwasvividlydefinedamongtheflowerswhichpoetizedthebrownandcrumblingsillsofhercasementwindowswiththeirleadedpanes。Sometimesthereflectionofthereddamaskwindow—
curtainsaddedtotheeffectofthathead，alreadysohighlycolored;
likeacrimsonflowersheglowedintheaerialgardensocarefullytraineduponherwindow—sill。
Thequaintoldhousepossessedthereforesomethingmorequaintthanitself，——theportraitofayounggirlworthyofMieris，orVanOstade，orTerburg，orGerardDouw，framedinoneofthoseold，defaced，halfruinedwindowsthebrushesoftheoldDutchpainterslovedsowell。
Whensomestranger，surprisedorinterestedbythebuilding，stoppedbeforeitandgazedatthesecondstory，oldSauviatwouldpokehisheadbeyondtheoverhangingprojection，certainthatheshouldseehisdaughteratherwindow。ThenhewouldretreatintotheshoprubbinghishandsandsayingtohiswifeintheAuvergnevernacular:——