The window, from which this singular music sounded into the summer air, opened from the upper story of a house that stood some distance back from the street - a house of a kind of which there are many in this western suburb. They are generally entirely unornamented, box like buildings, windowless except on the northern side, and there pierced by great quadrangular openings, sup plied with all manner of arrangements for admitting the steadiest possible light from above. In summer one never sees above them the little cloud of smoke that betrays a domestic hearth, and no profane smell of cooking meets the visitor upon the threshold - as in most other Munich houses. From the Open windows floats only a light, invis ible odor of tobacco-smoke, agreeably mingled with the invigorating fragrance of varnishes, oils, and turpentine - which shows that here only the holy fire of art is fed, and that here, upon silent altars (three-legged easels and sculptors' pedestals) are offered sacrifices that cannot even shelter the priests that offer them from the pangs of hun ger.