ad passed through them. Then he knew that
he saw St. Francis, and he was so ashamed and afraid that he clung to
the rocks and could not speak.

Then the little brother turned from looking out upon the morning in
Val d'Arno and looked at Fra Angelo. After a long while he said, very
softly, "What doest thou here in the cave, dearest?"

"Blessed father," stammered the recluse, "I dwell in solitude, to
atone for my worldly life and find a holy death."

"That is for thyself," said the little brother in the sun; "but for
others what doest thou?"

Angelo thought a moment and answered, humbly, "I give them an ensample
of holiness."

"They need more," said the little brother smiling, "and thou must give
it."

"Blessed father," cried Angelo, "command me and I will obey thee, for
thou art in heaven and I am near to hell."

"Listen, then, thou lost sheep," said the little brother, "and I will
show thee the way. Climb over the wall. Lay aside the breastplate and
rings of iron--they hinder thee. Come near and sit beside me. In a
certain city there is a poor widow whose child is sick even unto
death. Go unto her with this box of electuary, and give it to the
child that he may recover. I command thee by Obedience."

So saying he laid in the hand of Angelo a box of olive-wood, filled
with an electuary so sweet that the fragrance of it went through the
wood. But Angelo was confused.

"How shall I know the way," said he, "when I know not the city?"

"Stand up," answered the little brother with the wounded hands, "and
close thine eyes firmly. Now turn round and round as children do,
until I bid thee stop."

So Fra Angelo, fearing a little because the shelf of rock was narrow,
shut tight his eyes and, stretching out his arms, turned round and
round until he was dizzy. Then he fell to the ground, and when he
looked up the little brother of the sun was gone.

But the head of Fra Angelo lay toward the city of Poppi on the other
side of the valley, so he knew that this was the way, and he went down
from the mountain.

As he went, his bodily weakness departed and the pains of his worn
flesh left him, and he rejoiced in the brightness of the world. The
linnets and blackbirds that sang in the thickets were the children of
those that had been brothers of the air to St. Francis, and the larks
that bubbled up from the fields wore the same sad-coloured garments
and chanted the same joyous music that he had commended. The primroses
an