ling of trees or the plash of a fountain. We paused
at a wide weatherbeaten door, rang the bell and were admitted by a brown
smiling contadina, who preceded us up the narrow path that had vines
stretching out on either side, with flowering peas and beans climbing,
all crimson and scarlet blossom, over the jagged stakes. The air was
rilled with perfume and the eager buzzing of bees. At the end of the
path stood a large square house, on the portico of which sat two
blue-frocked peasants smoking and drinking red wine. There was a broad
patch of green sward in front, on which three yellow-haired children and
a small tawny dog were rolling in play. Under the great fig tree at the
side of the house sat three brown-faced women, two knitting, the third
dressing her hair. There were cool shadows under the broad leaves of the
fig tree, and bars of slanting sunlight falling through the foliage on
to the grass. At the right of the house stood a little Gothic chapel
with the sunlight streaming across the threshold. On the arch of the
door the birds were singing, and there was a growth of purple cabbages
and kingly artichokes by the side of the chapel, and low in the hollows
near by lay patches of brake and fern.

At the sunlit threshold a woman sat sewing. Before her was a table with
photographs, and a stalk of lilies in a blue earthern pitcher upon it.
The sun streamed over the sunken pavement to the neglected little altar
with its coarse mosaics and paper flowers, over the rickety little
pulpit and the traces of Byzantine gilding, and over the quaint old
effigy of the founder. It fell, soft and brilliant and caressing, on the
frescoes of Giotto. They were as pure and fresh and holy as the very
lilies; and as the lilies revealed the innermost meanings of Sant'
Antonio's Day to the hearts of the worshippers, so the frescoes
symbolized the deepest reverence, the hidden longing of the whole
brilliant, noisy Middle Age life of Padua. Their very crudeness, their
nakedness, their barrenness of accessory, their sharp, brilliant
coloring, cause them to stand out in strong relief. Never did the
mystery of Holy Writ receive better interpretation than at the hands of
Giotto. The characters in the sacred writings stand out sharp, bold,
naked, crude, and Giotto caught the bare emotional and intellectual
nature of every personage. He painted their souls and not their bodies,
and therefore he painted well. Each character might stand for the
perso