would never cumber his mind with the
things of this world, and would not paint for money, nor for prince's
favor; nor would he take places of power and trust in the Church, or
else, so great was his piety, they had made a bishop of him; but he kept
ever aloof and walked in the shade. He used to say, 'They that would do
Christ's work must walk with Christ.' His pictures of angels are indeed
wonderful, and their robes are of all dazzling colors, like the rainbow.
It is most surely believed among us that he painted to show forth what
he saw in heavenly visions."

"Ah!" said Agnes, "how I wish I could see some of these things!"

"You may well say so, dear child. There is one picture of Paradise
painted on gold, and there you may see our Lord in the midst of the
heavens crowning his blessed Mother, and all the saints and angels
surrounding; and the colors are so bright that they seem like the sunset
clouds,--golden, and rosy, and purple, and amethystine, and green like
the new, tender leaves of spring: for, you see, the angels are the
Lord's flowers and birds that shine and sing to gladden his Paradise,
and there is nothing bright on earth that is comparable to them,--so
said the blessed Angelico, who saw them. And what seems worthy of note
about them is their marvellous lightness, that they seem to float as
naturally as the clouds do, and their garments have a divine grace of
motion like vapor that curls and wavers in the sun. Their faces, too,
are most wonderful; for they seem so full of purity and majesty, and
withal humble, with an inexpressible sweetness; for, beyond all others,
it was given to the holy Angelico to paint the immortal beauty of the
soul."

"It must be a great blessing and favor for you, dear uncle, to see all
these things," said Agnes; "I am never tired of hearing you tell of
them."

"There is one little picture," said the monk, "wherein he hath painted
the death of our dear Lady; and surely no mortal could ever conceive
anything like her sweet dying face, so faint and weak and tender that
each man sees his own mother dying there, yet so holy that one feels
that it can be no other than the mother of our Lord; and around her
stand the disciples mourning; but above is our blessed Lord himself, who
receives the parting spirit, as a tender new-born babe, into his bosom:
for so the holy painters represented the death of saints, as of a birth
in which each soul became a little child of heaven."

"How gr