py life, and he was always
ready to paint for any one that should ask him.

Many people now were proud to know the famous young painter, but his
old companion Fra Diamante was still the friend he loved best. Whenever
it was possible they still would work together; so, great was their
delight when one day an order came from Prato that they should both go
there to paint the walls of San Stefano.

'Good-bye to old Florence for a while,' cried Filippo as they set out
merrily together. He looked back as he spoke at the spires and sunbaked
roofs, the white marble facade of San Miniato, and the dark cypresses
standing clear against the pure warm sky of early spring. 'I am weary
of your great men and all your pomp and splendour. Something tells me
we shall have a golden time among the good folk of Prato.'

Perhaps it was the springtime that made Filippo so joyous that morning
as he rode along the dusty white road.

Spring had come with a glad rush, as she ever comes in Italy,
scattering on every side her flowers and favours. From under the dead
brown leaves of autumn, violets pushed their heads and perfumed all the
air. Under the grey olives the sprouting corn spread its tender green,
and the scarlet and purple of the anemones waved spring's banner far
and near. It was good to be alive on such a day.

Arrived at Prato, the two painters, with a favourite pupil called
Botticelli, worked together diligently, and covered wall after wall
with their frescoes. It seemed as if they would never be done, for each
church and convent had work awaiting them.

'Truly,' said Filippo one day when he was putting the last touches to a
portrait of Fra Diamante, whom he had painted into his picture of the
death of St. Stephen, 'I will undertake no more work for a while. It is
full time we had a holiday together.'

But even as he spoke a message was brought to him from the good abbess
of the convent of Santa Margherita, begging him to come and paint an
altarpiece for the sisters' chapel.

'Ah, well, what must be, must be,' he said to Fra Diamante, who stood
smiling by. 'I will do what I can to please these holy women, but after
that--no more.'

The staid and sober abbess met him at the convent door, and silently
led him through the sunny garden, bright with flowers, where the
lizards darted to right and left as they walked past the fountain and
entered the dim, cool chapel. In a low, sweet voice she told him what
they would have him pain