him.

"I have need of a good artist in my bottega to keep up its fame,"
he had said stiffly. "My vision is not what it was, and I should
be loath to see Urbino ware fall back, whilst Pesaro and Gubbio
and Castel Durante gain ground every day. Pacifica must pay the
penalty, if penalty there be, for being the daughter of a great
artist."

Mirthful, keen-witted Sanzio smiled to himself, and went his way
in silence; for he who loved Andrea Mantegna did not bow down in
homage before the old master-potter's estimation of himself, which
was in truth somewhat overweening in its vanity.

"Poor Pacifica!" he thought; "if only my 'Faello were but some
decade older!"

He, who could not foresee the future, the splendid, wondrous,
unequaled future that awaited his young son, wished nothing better
for him than a peaceful painter's life here in old Urbino, under
the friendly shadow of the Montefeltro's palace walls.

Meanwhile, where think you was Raffaelle? Half the day, or all the
day, and every day whenever he could? Where think you was he?
Well, in the attic of Luca, before a bowl and a dish almost as big
as himself. The attic was a breezy, naked place, underneath the
arches supporting the roof of Maestro Benedetto's dwelling. Each
pupil had one of these garrets to himself,--a rare boon, for which
Luca came to be very thankful, for without it he could not have
sheltered his angel; and the secret that Raffaelle had whispered