young painter, but his old companion Fra Diamante
was still the friend he loved best. Whenever it was
possible they still would work together; so, great
was their delight when one day an order came from
Prato that they should both go there to paint the
walls of San Stefano.

`Good-bye to old Florence for a while,' cried
Filippo as they set out merrily together. He
looked back as he spoke at the spires and sunbaked
roofs, the white marble facade of San Miniato, and
the dark cypresses standing clear against the pure
warm sky of early spring. `I am weary of your
great men and all your pomp and splendour.
Something tells me we shall have a golden time
among the good folk of Prato.'

Perhaps it was the springtime that made Filippo
so joyous that morning as he rode along the dusty
white road.

Spring had come with a glad rush, as she ever
comes in Italy, scattering on every side her flowers
and favours. From under the dead brown leaves of
autumn, violets pushed their heads and perfumed all
the air. Under the grey olives the sprouting corn
spread its tender green, and the scarlet and purple
of the anemones waved spring's banner far and near.
It was good to be alive on such a day.