do, but the news of his
marriage was soon noised abroad.

'Hast thou heard the news of young Andrea del Sarto?' asked the people
of Florence of one another. 'I fear he has dealt an evil blow at his
own chances of success.'

One by one his friends left him, and many of his pupils deserted the
studio. Lucrezia's sharp tongue was unbearable, and she made mischief
among them all. Only Andrea remained blinded by her beauty, and thought
that now, with such a model always near him, he would paint as he had
never painted before.

But little did Lucrezia care to help him with his work. His pictures
meant nothing to her except so far as they sold well and brought in
money for her to spend. Worst of all, she began to grudge the help that
he gave to his old father and mother, who now were poor and needed his
care.

And yet, although Andrea saw all this, he still loved his beautiful
wife and cared only how he might please her. He scarcely painted a
picture that had not her face in it, for she was his ideal Madonna,
Queen of Heaven.

But it was not so easy now to put his whole heart and soul into his
work. True, his hand drew as correctly as ever, and his colours were
even more beautiful, but often the soul seemed lacking.

'Thou dost work but slowly,' the proud beauty would say, tired of
sitting still as his model. 'Why canst thou not paint quicker and sell
at higher prices? I have need of more gold, and the money seems to grow
scarcer week by week.'

Andrea sighed. Truly the money vanished like magic, as Lucrezia's
jewels and dresses increased.

'Dear heart, have a little patience,' he said. 'I can but do my best.'

Then, as he looked at the angry discontented face of his wife, he laid
down his brushes and went to kneel beside her.

'Lucrezia,' he said, 'there needs something besides mere drawing and
painting to make a picture. They call me "the faultless painter," and
it seemed once as if I might have reached as high or even higher than
the great Raphael. It needed but the soul put into my work, and if thou
couldst have helped me to reach my ideal, what would I not have shown
the world!'

'I do not understand thee,' said Lucrezia petulantly, 'and this is
waste of time. Haste thee and get back to thy brushes and paints, and
see that thou drivest a better bargain with this last picture.'

No, it was no use; she could never understand! Andrea knew that he must
look for no help from her, and that he must paint in spite