o paint his own pictures.

Strangely enough, his first work was to paint the walls of the Carmille
Chapel--that same chapel where Filippo and Diamante had learned their
lessons, and had gazed with such awe and reverence on Masaccio's work.

The great painter, Ugly Tom, was dead, and there were still parts of
the chapel unfinished, so Filippino was invited to fill the empty
spaces with his work. No need for the new prior to warn this young
painter against the sin of painting earthly pictures. The frescoes
which daily grew beneath Filippino's hands were saintly and beautiful.
The tall angel in flowing white robes who so gently leads St. Peter out
of the prison door, shines with a pure fair light that speaks of
Heaven. The sleeping soldier looks in contrast all the more dull and
heavy, while St. Peter turns his eyes towards his gentle guide and
folds his hands in reverence, wrapped in the soft reflected light of
that fair face. And on the opposite wall, the sad face of St. Peter
looks out through the prison bars, while a brother saint stands
outside, and with uplifted hand speaks comforting words to the poor
prisoner.

By slow degrees the chapel walls were finished, and after that there
was much work ready for the young painter's hand. It is said that he
was very fond of studying old Roman ornaments and painted them into his
pictures whenever it was possible, and became very famous for this kind
of work. But it is the beauty of his Madonnas and angels that makes us
love his pictures, and we like to think that the memory of his gentle
mother taught him how to paint those lovely faces.

Perhaps of all his pictures the most beautiful is one in the church of
the Badia in Florence. It tells the story of the blessed St. Bernard,
and shows the saint in his desert home, as he sat among the rocks
writing the history of the Madonna. He had not been able to write that
day; perhaps he felt dull, and none of his books, scattered around,
were of any help. Then, as he sat lost in thought, with his pen in his
hand, the Virgin herself stood before him, an angel on either side, and
little angel faces pressed close behind her. Laying a gentle hand upon
his book, she seems to tell St. Bernard all those golden words which
his poor earthly pen had not been able yet to write.

It used to be the custom long ago in Italy to place in the streets
sacred pictures or figures, that passers-by might be reminded of holy
things and say a prayer in pa