I'm sure waifs are fine people. Salt of the earth, they.
However, despite their charm and other exemplary qualities, I can't get enthused about paintings featuring waifs. Don't necessarily hate those works, mind you -- it's just that I can't seem to move my appreciation needle into the positive zone.
Back during the 1960s waif art was dominated by Walter Keane who painted waifs of various types in assorted settings who stared with large, sad eyes directly at the viewer. Except that Walter Keane didn't actually do all the paintings or maybe didn't do any, his signature notwithstanding. It was his wife Margaret who did the grunt work. Perhaps her waifs were tying to tell us something that eventually required a court of law to sort out. (The Wikipedia entry on Walter offers some of his side of the issue, in case you might be interested.)
Waif art has been around longer than the Keanes, confirming that there indeed is and has been a market for it. So I straighten my back, click my heels and give that market a hearty (if uncomprehending) salute and turn you over to a galley of waifs dating as far back as the 19th century.
Probably not a true waif, though the house looks pretty rustic -- or seedy, even.