seemed to have forgotten him. He was sitting
before the fire one stormy night, lonely and sad, when the door opened
and a tall handsome lad came in.

'Master!' he cried, and kneeling down he kissed the old man's hands.
'Dost thou not know me? I am thy little Francesco, come to claim thy
promise that I should one day be thy servant and pupil.

Leonardo laid his hand upon the boy's fair head and looked into his
face.

'I am growing old,' he said, 'and I can no longer do for thee what I
might once have done. I am but a poor wanderer now. Dost thou indeed
wish to cast in thy lot with mine?'

'I care only to be near thee,' said the boy. 'I will go with thee to
the ends of the earth.'

So when, soon after, Leonardo received an invitation from the new King
of France, he took the boy with him, and together they made their home
in the little chateau of Claux near the town of Amboise.

The master's hair was silvered now, and his long beard was as white as
snow. His keen blue eyes looked weary and tired of life, and care had
drawn many deep lines on his beautiful face. Sad thoughts were always
his company. The one word 'failure' seemed to be written across his
life. What had he done? He had begun many things and had finished but
few. His great fresco was even now fading away and becoming dim and
blurred. His model for the marvellous horse was destroyed. A few
pictures remained, but these had never quite reached his ideal. The
crowd who had once hailed him as the greatest of all artists, could now
only talk of Michelangelo and the young Raphael. Michelangelo himself
had once scornfully told him he was a failure and could finish nothing.

He was glad to leave Italy and all its memories behind, and he hoped to
begin work again in his quiet little French home. But Death was drawing
near, and before many years had passed he grew too weak to hold a brush
or pencil.

It was in the springtime of the year that the end came. Francesco had
opened the window and gently lifted the master in his strong young
arms, that he might look once more on the outside world which he loved
so dearly. The trees were putting on their dainty dress of tender
green, white clouds swept across the blue sky, and April sunshine
flooded the room.

As he looked out, the master's tired eyes woke into life.

'Look!' he cried, 'the swallows have come back! Oh that they would lend
me their wings that I might fly away and be at rest!'

The swallows darted a