new beauty to his own work from
what he had learned.

Several years passed by, and at last the brothers were allowed to
return to their convent home of San Dominico at Fiesole, and there they
lived peaceably for a long time. We cannot tell exactly what pictures
our painter-monk painted during those peaceful years, but we know he
must have been looking out with wise, seeing eyes, drinking in all the
beauty that was spread around him.

At his feet lay Florence, with its towers and palaces, the Arno running
through it like a silver thread, and beyond, the purple of the Tuscan
hills. All around on the sheltered hillside were green vines and
fruit-trees, olives and cypresses, fields flaming in spring with
scarlet anemones or golden with great yellow tulips, and hedges of
rose-bushes covered with clusters of pink blossoms. No wonder, then,
such beauty sunk into his heart, and we see in his pictures the pure
fresh colour of the spring flowers, with no shadow of dark or evil
things.

Soon the fame of the painter began to be whispered outside the convent
walls, and reached the ears of Cosimo da Medici, one of the powerful
rulers of Florence. He offered the monks a new home, and, when they
were settled in the convent of San Marco in Florence, he invited Fra
Angelico to fresco the walls.

One by one the heavenly pictures were painted upon the walls of the
cells and cloister of the new home. How the brothers must have crowded
round to see each new fresco as it was finished, and how anxious they
would be to see which picture was to be near their own particular bed.
In all the frescoes, whether he painted the gentle Virgin bending
before the angel messenger, or tried to show the glory of the ascended
Lord, the artist-monk would always introduce one or more of the
convent's special saints, which made the brothers feel that the
pictures were their very own. Fra Angelico had a kind word and smile
for all the brothers. He was never impatient, and no one ever saw him
angry, for he was as humble and gentle as the saints whose pictures he
loved to paint.

It is told of him, too, that he never took a brush or pencil in his
hand without a prayer that his work might be to the glory of God. Often
when he painted the sufferings of our Lord, the tears would be seen
running down his cheeks and almost blinding his eyes.

There is an old legend which tells of a certain monk who, when he was
busily illuminating a page of his missal, was call