of Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino,--the year, by the way, of the
birth of that most illustrious and gracious lady, Vittoria
Colonna.

It was in the spring of the year, in that mountain eyrie beloved
of the Muses and coveted of the Borgia, that a little boy stood
looking out of a grated casement into the calm, sunshiny day. He
was a pretty boy, with hazel eyes, and fair hair cut straight
above his brows; he wore a little blue tunic with some embroidery
about the throat of it, and had in his hand a little round flat
cap of the same color. He was sad of heart this merry morning, for
a dear friend of his, a friend ten years older than himself, had
gone the night before on a journey over the mountains to Maestro
Francesco at Bologna, there to be bound apprentice to that gentle
artist. This friend, Timoteo della Vita, had been very dear to the
child, had played with him and jested with him, made him toys and
told him stories, and he was very full of pain at Timoteo's loss.
Yet he told himself not to mind, for had not Timoteo said to him,
"I go as goldsmith's 'prentice to the best of men; but I mean to
become a painter"? And the child understood that to be a painter
was to be the greatest and wisest the world held; he quite
understood that, for he was Raffaelle, the seven-year-old son of
Signor Giovanni Sanzio.

He was a very happy little boy here in this stately, yet homely
and kindly Urbino, where his people had come for refuge when the
lances of Malatesta had ravaged and ruined their homestead. He had
the dearest old grandfather in all the world; he had a loving
mother, and he had a father who was very tender to him, and
painted him among the angels of heaven, and was always full of