`My son,' he said, `you have learned well, and it is
time now to turn your work to some account. Go
into the cloister where the walls have been but
newly whitewashed, and let us see what kind of
pictures thou canst paint.'

With burning cheeks and shining eyes, Filippo
began his work. Day after day he stood on the
scaffolding, with his brown robe pinned back and
his bare arm moving swiftly as he drew figure after
figure on the smooth white wall.

He did not pause to think what he would draw,
the figures seemed to grow like magic under his
touch. There were the monks in their brown and
white robes, fat and laughing, or lean and anxious-
minded. There were the people who came to say
their prayers in church, little children clinging to
their mothers' skirts, beggars and rich folks, even
the stray dog that sometimes wandered in. Yes,
and the pretty girls who laughed and talked in
whispers. He drew them all, just as he had often
seen them. Then, when the last piece of wall was
covered, he stopped his work.

The news soon spread through all the convent
that Brother Filippo had finished his picture, and all
the monks came hurrying to see. The scaffolding
was taken down, and then they all stood round,