eyes with their beauty, and taught him many a
lesson which he could never have learned on the
quiet slopes of Fiesole.

The hill towns of Italy are very much the same
to-day as they were in those days. Long winding
roads lead upwards from the plain below to the
city gates, and there on the summit of the hill the
little town is built. The tall white houses cluster
close together, and the overhanging eaves seem
almost to meet across the narrow paved streets, and
always there is the great square, with the church
the centre of all.

It would be almost a day's journey to follow the
white road that leads down from Perugia across
the plain to the little hill town of Assisi, and many
a spring morning saw the painter-monk setting
out on the convent donkey before sunrise and
returning when the sun had set. He would thread
his way up between the olive-trees until he reached
the city gates, and pass into the little town without
hindrance. For the followers of St. Francis in their
brown robes would be glad to welcome a stranger
monk, though his black robe showed that he
belonged to a different order. Any one who came
to see the glory of their city, the church where
their saint lay, which Giotto had covered with his
wonderful pictures, was never refused admittance.