not really Guido, but those who loved him had called him so in order to
try and express their hearts about him. For they thought if a great
painter could be a little boy, then he would be something like this one.
They were not very learned in the history of painters: they had heard of
Raphael, but Raphael was too elevated, too much of the sky, and of
Titian, but Titian was fond of feminine loveliness, and in the end
somebody said Guido was a dreamy name, as if it belonged to one who was
full of faith. Those golden curls shaking about his head as he ran and
filling the air with radiance round his brow, looked like a Nimbus or
circlet of glory. So they called him St. Guido, and a very, very wild
saint he was.

St. Guido stopped in the cornfield, and looked all round. There were the
fir-trees behind him--a thick wall of green--hedges on the right and the
left, and the wheat sloped down towards an ash-copse in the hollow. No
one was in the field, only the fir-trees, the green hedges, the yellow
wheat, and the sun overhead, Guido kept quite still, because he expected
that in a minute the magic would begin, and something would speak to him.
His cheeks which had been flushed with running grew less hot, but I
cannot tell you the exact colour they were, for his skin was so white and
clear, it would not tan under the sun, yet being always out of doors it
had taken the faintest tint of golden brown mixed with rosiness. His blue
eyes which had been wide open, as they always were when full of mischief,
became softer, and his long eyelashes drooped over them. But as the magic
did not begin, Guido walked on slowly into the wheat, which rose nearly
to his head, though it was not yet so tall as it would be before the
reapers came. He did not break any of the stalks, or bend them down and
step on them; he passed between them, and they yielded on either side.
The wheat-ears were pale gold, having only just left off their green, and
they surrounded him on all sides as if he were bathing.