apart if thou callest him Filippo?' asked the
proud father.

'Ah, he is such a little one, dear heart,' Lucrezia answered gaily. 'We
will call him Filippino, and then there can be no mistake.'

There was no more need now to seek for pleasures out of doors. Filippo
painted his pictures and lived his happy home life without seeking any
more adventures. His Madonnas grew ever more beautiful, for they were
all touched with the beauty that shone from Lucrezia's fair face, and
the Infant Christ had ever the smile and the curly golden hair of the
baby Filippino.

And by and by a little daughter came to gladden their hearts, and then
indeed their cup of joy was full.

'What name shall we give the little maid?' said Filippo.

'Methought thou wouldst have it Lucrezia,' answered the mother.

'There is but one Lucrezia in all the world for me,' he said. 'None
other but thee shall bear that name.'

As they talked a knock sounded at the door, and presently the favourite
pupil, Sandro, looked in. There was a shout of joy from little
Filippino, and the young man lifted the child in his arms and smiled
with the look of one who loves children.

'Come, Sandro, and see the little new flower,' said Filippo. 'Is she
not as fair as the roses which thou dost so love to paint?'

Then, as the young man looked with interest at the tiny face, Filippo
clapped him on the shoulder.

'I have it!' he cried. 'She shall be called after thee, Alessandra.
Some day she will be proud to think that she bears thy name.'

For already Filippo knew that this pupil of his would ere long wake the
world to new wonder.

The only clouds that hid the sunshine of Lucrezia's life was when
Filippo was obliged to leave her for a while and paint his pictures in
other towns. She always grew sad when his work in Florence drew to a
close, for she never knew where his next work might lie.

'Well,' said Filippo one night as he returned home and caught up little
Filippino in his arms, 'the picture for the nuns of San Ambrogio is
finished at last! Truly they have saints and angels enough this
time--rows upon rows of sweet faces and white lilies. And the sweetest
face of all is thine, Saint Lucy, kneeling in front with thy hand
beneath the chin of this young cherub.'

'Is it indeed finished so soon?' asked Lucrezia, a wistful note
creeping into her voice.

'Ay, and to-morrow I must away to Spoleto to begin my work at the
Chapel of Our Lady. But look not so sad,