of the mother's face and its ineffable suggestiveness, of the mingled burden of joy and trouble, the tenderness turned to worship, and the worship turned to far-seeing pity! Then look at it all in perfect line and lovely color, breathing truth and beauty and mastery!"
"Anch' io son pittore!" I cried. "Unless I'm mistaken, you 've a masterpiece on the stocks. If you put all that in, you 'll do more than Raphael himself did. Let me know when your picture is finished, and wherever in the wide world I may be, I 'll post back to Florence and make my bow to—the Madonna of the future!"
He blushed vividly and gave a heavy sigh, half of protest, half of resignation. "I don't often mention my picture, in so many words. I detest this modern custom of premature publicity. A great work needs silence, privacy, mystery even. And then, do you know, people are so cruel, so frivolous, so unable to imagine a man's wishing to paint a Madonna at this time of day, that I've been laughed at,—laughed at, sir!" And his blush deepened to crimson. "I don't know what has prompted me to be so frank and trustful with you. You look as if you would n't laugh at me. My dear young man," and he laid his hand on my arm, "I'm worthy of respect. Whatever my talents may be, I'm honest. There's nothing grotesque in a pure ambition, or in a life devoted to it! "
