lowed to go into the church
and watch those wonderful frescoes, which grew under the hand of the
great awkward painter, 'Ugly Tom,' as he was called.

Together Filippo and Diamante stood and watched with awe, learning
lessons there which the good father had not been able to teach. Then
they would begin to put into practice what they had learned, and try to
copy in their own pictures the work of the great master.

'Thou hast the knack of it, Filippo,' Diamante would say as he looked
with envy at the figures Filippo drew so easily.

'Thy pictures are also good,' Filippo would answer quickly, 'and thou
thyself art better than any one else in the convent.'

There was no complaint now of Filippo's dullness. He soon learned all
that the painter-monks could teach him, and as years passed on the
prior would rub his hands in delight to think that here was an artist,
one of themselves, who would soon be able to paint the walls of the
church and convent, and make them as famous as the convent of San Marco
had been made famous by its angelical painter.

Then one day he called Filippo to him.

'My son,' he said, 'you have learned well, and it is time now to turn
your work to some account. Go into the cloister where the walls have
been but newly whitewashed, and let us see what kind of pictures thou
canst paint.'

With burning cheeks and shining eyes, Filippo began his work. Day after
day he stood on the scaffolding, with his brown robe pinned back and
his bare arm moving swiftly as he drew figure after figure on the
smooth white wall.

He did not pause to think what he would draw, the figures seemed to
grow like magic under his touch. There were the monks in their brown
and white robes, fat and laughing, or lean and anxious-minded. There
were the people who came to say their prayers in church, little
children clinging to their mothers' skirts, beggars and rich folks,
even the stray dog that sometimes wandered in. Yes, and the pretty
girls who laughed and talked in whispers. He drew them all, just as he
had often seen them. Then, when the last piece of wall was covered, he
stopped his work.

The news soon spread through all the convent that Brother Filippo had
finished his picture, and all the monks came hurrying to see. The
scaffolding was taken down, and then they all stood round, gazing with
round eyes and open mouths. They had never seen anything like it
before, and at first there was silence except for one long drawn