ng about among the sick, followed
by their tearful, grateful blessing.

Brother Johannes was skilled in illuminating, and Valentine often
watched the page grow under his clever hand. How beautiful would then be
the gospel story in brightly-coloured letters, with dainty flowers,
bright-winged butterflies, and downy, nestling birds about the borders!

Brother Paul was a great teacher in the monastery school, and even
learned scholars came to consult him. Friar John ruled the affairs of
the little monastery world with wisdom and prudence. Indeed, out of the
whole number only Valentine seemed without special talent.

The poor man felt it keenly. He longed to do some great thing. "Why did
not the good God give me a voice like Vittorio or a skilled hand like
Angelo?" he would often inquire of himself bitterly. One day as he sat
sadly musing on these things, a voice within him said clearly and
earnestly: "Do the little things, Valentine; there the blessing lies."
"What are the little things?" asked Valentine, much perplexed. But no
answer came to this question. Like every one else, Valentine had to find
his work himself.

He had a little plot where he loved to work, and the other monks said
that Valentine's pinks, lilies, and violets were larger and brighter
than any raised in the whole monastery garden.

He used to gather bunches of his flowers and drop them into the chubby
hands of children as they trotted to school under the gray monastery
walls. Many a happy village bride wore his roses on her way to the
altar. Scarcely a coffin was taken to the cemetery but Valentine's
lilies or violets filled the silent hands.

He got to know the birthday of every child in the village, and was fond
of hanging on the cottage door some little gift his loving hands had
made. He could mend a child's broken windmill and carve quaint faces
from walnut shells. He made beautiful crosses of silvery gray lichens,
and pressed mosses and rosy weeds from the seashore. The same tender
hands were ready to pick up a fallen baby, or carry the water bucket for
some weary mother.

Everybody learned to love the good Brother Valentine. The children clung
to his long, gray skirts, and the babies crept out on the streets to
receive his pat on their shining hair. Even the cats and dogs rubbed
against him, and the little birds fluttered near him unafraid.

St. Valentine grew old, loving and beloved, never dreaming that he had
found his great thing. When