while all the riches of light and colour and beauty
are always his. If thou hast it in thee to be a
painter, my little Perugino, I can wish thee no
greater fortune.'

Then when the day's work was done and the
short spell of twilight drew near, the boy would
leave the shop and run swiftly down the narrow
street until he came to the grim old city gates.
Once outside, under the wide blue sky in the free
open air of the country, he drew a long, long breath
of pleasure, and quickly found a hidden corner in
the cleft of the hoary trunk of an olive-tree, where
no passer-by could see him. There he sat, his chin
resting on his hands, gazing and gazing out over
the plain below, drinking in the beauty with his
hungry eyes.

How he loved that great open space of sweet
fresh air, in the calm pure light of the evening hour.
That white light, which seemed to belong more to
heaven than to earth, shone on everything around.
Away in the distance the purple hills faded into the
sunset sky. At his feet the plain stretched away,
away until it met the mountains, here and there
lifting itself in some little hill crowned by a lonely
town whose roofs just caught the rays of the setting
sun. The evening mist lay like a gossamer veil
upon the low-lying lands, and between the little
towns the long straight road could be seen, winding