"passing
the loves of earth" he pathetically told himself,--"as if God thus made
up to him for all the loves he had resigned,"--now that the name of Fra
Paolo was uttered with reverence while his own was unknown, he still
expressed his heart in many tender cares, providing the new cassock
before the scholar had noticed that the one he wore was seamed and
frayed, with such other gentle ministries as the convent rule permitted
toward one who never gave a worldly thought to the morrow.

And still, after all these years, the fatherly friar often fondly
recurred to a time when he had first seemed to catch some dim, shadowed
glimpse of that inner self which Fra Paolo so rarely expressed. He had
been endeavoring to rouse the lad to enthusiasm. "Never have I known one
show so little pleasure in nature," he had said. They were standing on
the terrace of a convent among the hills beyond the plains of Venetia,
and the view was beautiful and new for the youth.

"What is nature?" the lad had responded quietly.

"Nature?" Fra Giulio echoed, startled at the question. "Why, nature is
God's creation. Dost thou not find this bit of nature beautiful?"

"It is pleasant," the young friar had assented, without enthusiasm. "But
hath God created anything nobler than the mind and soul of man? The
earth is but for his habitation."

"Nay," the old man had replied, in a tone of disappointment, "it is more
for me--much more for those whom we call poets."

"Poets are dreamers," the lad had said, turning to his old friend with a
smile which seemed affectionate, yet was baffling, and went not deep
enough for love. "I would not dream; I must know."

"A little dreaming would not hurt thee, my Paolo; for sometimes it
seemeth to those who care for thee that thou needest rest."

"Rest is satisfaction," the lad answered quickly. "If there be a problem
to be solved, I would rather think than dream. I would rather come in
contact with the nobler activities--the mental and spiritual
forces--through the minds and works of men. I would find such attrition
more helpful than this phase of creation which thou callest 'nature,'
whose unfolding is more passive, depending on its inherent law."

"This also is of God's gift, Paolo mio," Fra Giulio had said yearningly.
"Sometimes thou seemest to find too little beauty in thy life, and when
I brought thee hither I hoped it might move thy soul."

"What can be more beautiful," the young philosopher had questioned