happy.

`So now thou wilt become a painter,' said his
father, with a hopeless sigh.

Truly this boy was more trouble than all the rest
put together. Here he had just settled down to
learn how to become a good goldsmith, and now he
wished to try his hand at something else. Well, it
was no use saying `no.' The boy could never be
made to do anything but what he wished. There was
the Carmelite monk Fra Filippo Lippi, of whom all,
men were talking. It was said he was the greatest
painter in Florence. The boy should have the best
teaching it was possible to give him, and perhaps
this time he would stick to his work.

So Sandro was sent as a pupil to Fra Filippo, and
he soon became a great favourite with the happy,
sunny-tempered master. The quick eye of the
painter soon saw that this was no ordinary pupil.
There was something about Sandro's drawing that
was different to anything that Filippo had ever seen
before. His figures seemed to move, and one
almost heard the wind rustling in their flowing
drapery. Instead of walking, they seemed to be
dancing lightly along with a swaying motion as if to
the rhythm of music. The very rose-leaves the boy
loved to paint, seemed to flutter down to the sound
of a fairy song. Filippo was proud of his pupil.