I lose by the want of one."

"I'll teach it to thee, myself, Brownlow, when both of us have
leisure," said Carlton.

"Do so, and I will repay thee at any cost."

And this, too, was one of those very artists, who but a few months
previous had scoffed and jeered at him in the open streets of
Florence.

How beautiful was the prospect that spread itself out to their view
as the mist cleared away from their path down the mountain. Below
them lay, in all its beauty, the city of Florence, the pride of
Tuscany, and the Val d'Arno, crowded with white palaces, whose walls
lay sparkling in the morning sun like the trembling waves of the
sea.

Carlton returned to his lodgings, which were now the best and most
capacious apartments of an ancient palace, the principal windows of
which opened fronting the tall eminence of Fiesole, crowned by the
gay old monastery where Milton passed many weeks while gathering
materials for "Paradise Lost."

Here Carlton had his studio, the daily resort of the beauty and
fashion of Florence, while his home was also the receptacle of all
that taste could suggest, or the most fastidious could desire,
contrasting strongly with his late want and suffering. Even the
Grand Duke honored his studio with an occasional visit, which
rendered the other artists of the city more jealous and envious than