dly keep himself from wickedness--unless
he gives up thinking much about pleasure or rewards, and gets strength
to endure what is hard and painful. My father had the greatness that
belongs to integrity; he chose poverty and obscurity rather than
falsehood. And there was Fra Girolamo--you know why I keep to-morrow
sacred: _he_ had the greatness which belongs to a life spent in
struggling against powerful wrong, and in trying to raise men to the
highest deeds they are capable of. And so, my Lillo, if you mean to act
nobly and seek to know the best things God has put within reach of men,
you must learn to fix your mind on that end, and not on what will happen
to you because of it. And remember, if you were to choose something
lower, and make it the rule of your life to seek your own pleasure and
escape from what is disagreeable, calamity might come just the same; and
it would be calamity falling on a base mind, which, is the one form of
sorrow that has no balm in it, and that may well make a man say,--`It
would have been better for me if I had never been born,' I will tell you
something, Lillo."

Romola paused for a moment. She had taken Lillo's cheeks between her
hands, and his young eyes were meeting hers.

"There was a man to whom I was very near, so that I could see a great
deal of his life, who made almost every one fond of him, for he was
young, and clever, and beautiful, and his manners to all were gentle and
kind, I believe, when I first knew him, he never thought of anything
cruel or base. But because he tried to slip away from everything that
was unpleasant, and cared for nothing else so much as his own safety, he
came at last to commit some of the basest deeds--such as make men
infamous. He denied his father, and left him to misery; he betrayed
every trust that was reposed in him, that he might keep himself safe and
get rich and prosperous. Yet calamity overtook him."

Again Romola paused. Her voice was unsteady, and Lillo was looking up
at her with awed wonder.

"Another time, my Lillo--I will tell you another time. See, there are
our old Piero di Cosimo and Nello coming up the Borgo Pinti, bringing us
their flowers. Let us go and wave our hands to them, that they may know
we see them."

"How queer old Piero is!" said Lillo as they stood at the corner of the
loggia, watching the advancing figures. "He abuses you for dressing the
altar, and thinking so much of Fra Girolamo, and yet he brings you