her. Laying a gentle hand upon his book, she
seems to tell St. Bernard all those golden words
which his poor earthly pen had not been able yet to
write.

It used to be the custom long ago in Italy to place
in the streets sacred pictures or figures, that passers-
by might be reminded of holy things and say a prayer
in passing. And still in many towns you will find in
some old dusty corner a beautiful picture, painted by
a master hand. A gleam of colour will catch your
eye, and looking up you see a picture or little shrine
of exquisite blue-and-white glazed pottery, where
the Madonna kneels and worships the Infant Christ
lying amongst the lilies at her feet. The old battered
lamp which hangs in front of these shrines is still
kept lighted by some faithful hand, and in spring-
time the children will often come and lay little
bunches of wild-flowers on the ledge below.

`It is for the Jesu Bambino,' they will say, and
their little faces grow solemn and reverent as they
kneel and say a prayer. Then off again they go to
their play.

In a little side-street of Prato, not far from the
convent where Filippino's father first saw Lucrezia's
lovely face in the sunny garden, there is one of these
wayside shrines. It is painted by Filippino, and is
one of his most beautiful pictures. The sweet face