tops of the pillars were cheese, and
the roof was of sugar, with a frieze of sweets running round it. Inside
the temple there was a choir of roast birds with their mouths wide
open, and the priests were two fat pigeons. It was the most splendid
supper-dish that ever was seen.

Every one was fond of the clever young painter. He was so kind and
courteous to all, and so simple-hearted that it was impossible for the
others to feel jealous or to grudge him the fame and praise that was
showered upon him more and more as each fresh picture was finished.

Then just when all gave promise of sunshine and happiness, a little
cloud rose in his blue sky, which grew and grew until it dimmed all the
glory of his life.

In the Via di San Gallo, not very far from the street where Andrea and
his friend lodged, there lived a very beautiful woman called Lucrezia.
She was not a highborn lady, only the daughter of a working man, but
she was as proud and haughty as she was beautiful. Nought cared she for
things high and noble, she was only greedy of praise and filled with a
desire to have her own way in everything. Yet her lovely face seemed as
if it must be the mirror of a lovely soul, and when the young painter
Andrea first saw her his heart went out towards her. She was his
long-dreamed-of ideal of beauty and grace, the vision of loveliness
which he had been trying to grasp all his life.

'What hath bewitched thee?' asked his friend as he watched Andrea
restlessly pacing up and down the studio, his brushes thrown aside and
his work left unfinished. 'Thou hast done little work for many weeks.'

'I cannot paint,' answered Andrea, 'for I see only one face ever before
me, and it comes between me and my work.'

'Thou art ruining all thy chances,' said the friend sadly, 'and the
face thou seest is not worth the sacrifice.'

Andrea turned on his heel with an angry look and went out. All his
friends were against him now. No one had a good word for the beautiful
Lucrezia. But she was worth all the world to him, and he had made up
his mind to marry her.

It was winter time, and the Christmas bells had but yesterday rung out
the tidings of the Holy Birthday when Andrea at last obtained his
heart's desire and made Lucrezia his wife. The joyful Christmastide
seemed a fit season in which to set the seal upon his great happiness,
and he thought himself the most fortunate of men. He had asked advice
of none, and had told no one what he meant to