hing like it before, and yet it was but a strange-looking
portrait of the Madonna and Child, scarcely like a real woman or a real
baby at all. Still, it seemed to them a perfect wonder, and Cimabue was
honoured as one of the city's greatest men.

The road was lonely as it wound along. There was nothing to be seen but
waves of grey hills on every side, so the stranger rode on, scarcely
lifting his eyes as he went. Then suddenly he came upon a flock of
sheep nibbling the scanty sunburnt grass, and a little brown-faced
shepherd-boy gave him a cheerful 'Good-day, master.'

There was something so bright and merry in the boy's smile that the
great man stopped and began to talk to him. Then his eye fell upon the
smooth flat rock over which the boy had been bending, and he started
with surprise.

'Who did that?' he asked quickly, and he pointed to the outline of a
sheep scratched upon the stone.

'It is the picture of one of my sheep there,' answered the boy, hanging
his head with a shame-faced look. 'I drew it with this,' and he held
out towards the stranger the sharp stone he had been using.

'Who taught you to do this?' asked the master as he looked more
carefully at the lines drawn on the rock.

The boy opened his eyes wide with astonishment 'Nobody taught me,
master,' he said. 'I only try to draw the things that my eyes see.'

'How would you like to come with me to Florence and learn to be a
painter?' asked Cimabue, for he saw that the boy had a wonderful power
in his little rough hands.

Giotto's cheeks flushed, and his eyes shone with joy.

'Indeed, master, I would come most willingly,' he cried, 'if only my
father will allow it.'

So back they went together to the village, but not before Giotto had
carefully put his sheep into the fold, for he was never one to leave
his work half done.

Bondone was amazed to see his boy in company with such a grand
stranger, but he was still more surprised when he heard of the
stranger's offer. It seemed a golden chance, and he gladly gave his
consent.

Why, of course, the boy should go to Florence if the gracious master
would take him and teach him to become a painter. The home would be
lonely without the boy who was so full of fun and as bright as a
sunbeam. But such chances were not to be met with every day, and he was
more than willing to let him go.

So the master set out, and the boy Giotto went with him to Florence to
begin his training.

The studio where Cimab