ways. But the vital question is the
maintenance of that intense spirit of personal devotion to the good
Shepherd and His lost sheep, which can alone render any such scheme of
life possible. To that great end may this book minister, and God grant
us grace and wisdom to raise up generation after generation of
soldiers, who will not only drink in, but fully carry out that spirit.

WILLIAM BOOTH.

_International Headquarters,
London._

BROTHER FRANCIS.

OR,

LESS THAN THE LEAST.

CHAPTER I.

ASSISI AND FRANCIS.

"Hands love clasped through charmed hours,
Feet that press the bruised flowers,
Is there naught for you to dare,
That ye may his signet wear?"

You will not be likely to find Assisi marked on any ordinary map of
Italy. It is far too unimportant a place for that. That is to say,
geographically unimportant. Assisi lies half-way up the Apennines. The
houses, which are built of a curious kind of rosy-tinted stone, press
so closely together one above the other on the rocks, so that each
house seems trying to look over its neighbours' head. The result of
this is that from every window you have one of the grandest views in
Europe. Above, the mountains tower into the sky, and yet they are not
so close as to suggest crowding. Beneath lies stretched out the
Umbrian plain, the centre and heart of Italy. With its rich harvests,
plentiful streams and luxuriant vegetation, it might well be called
the Eden of Italy.

The atmosphere is clear and transparent, and the nights, with their
dark blue cloudless skies, studded with myriads of shining, sparkling
stars, are better imagined than described!

[Sidenote: _Like a Prince._]

It was midway up one of the narrow steep little streets, in one of
those rosy-tinted houses, that Francis Bernardone was born, about six
hundred years ago. Only he wasn't Francis just then. He was John. As
a matter of fact there was no such name as Francis known in Assisi,
and some think it was invented there and then for the first time by
Pietro Bernardone.

When his baby was born, Pietro was far away, travelling in France. He
was a merchant, and his business often took him away from home. As
there were no letters or telegrams to tell him the news, it was not
till he got back that he found he had a baby son, who had been duly
christened John at the parish church. But Pietro had