looked and looked at them; but, try as hard as I could, I could not be
one bit interested. The pictures are so queer, the figures so stiff, I
could not see a beautiful or interesting thing about them. But I know I
am all wrong. I do want to see what they saw, and to feel as they felt!"

"I liked the pictures because of their subject," said Bettina; "that
dear St. Francis of Assisi who loved the birds and flowers, and talked
to them as if they could understand him. But I did not see any beauty in
them."

"We must learn what it is; we must do more than just look at all these
early pictures that fill the churches and galleries just as we would
look at wall paper, as so many people seemed to do in the Uffizi gallery
the other day," said Barbara, emphatically. "This must be one of the
things papa meant."

Just here came a knock on the door.

"May we come in, Margery and I?" asked Malcom. "Why! what is the matter?
You look as if you had been talking of something unpleasant."

Bettina told of Barbara's trouble.

"How strange!" said Margery. "Mamma has just been talking to us about
this very thing. She says that, if you like, Uncle Robert will teach us
about the works of the Italian painters. You know he knows _everything_
about them! He has even written a book about these paintings in
Florence!"

"Yes," said Malcom with a comical shrug, "the idea is that we all spend