Marina came often to the studio of the Veronese in San Samuele, while the Madonna del Sorriso grew slowly into life; it was not that most perfect life of which the artist had dreamed, for hitherto beauty had sufficed to him and he had never sought to burden his creations with questions of the soul; but now the sadness of the unattainable that was growing within him looked out of the wonderful eyes of the maiden on his canvas, yet he tossed his brushes aside in discontent.  “Her smile eludeth me, though it hath the candor of a child’s,” the master cried.

Within his studio his pupils came and went, some earnest to follow in the footsteps of the master, absorbed in their tasks; others, golden youths, painting a little because Art was beautiful—­not overcoming.

In the inner chamber, which was the artist’s sanctum, were only the Veronese and his brother Benedetto at work; his brother, who was architect and sculptor too, was putting in the background of an elaborate palace in a fine Venetian group upon which Paolo worked when not occupied with his Madonna; and a favorite pupil, the young nobleman Marcantonio Giustiniani, was in attendance upon the master.  The lovely girlish face, of a spiritual type rare in Venice, seemed to the young patrician more beautiful than that of any of the noble, smiling ladies who were waiting to be won by him, and in those hours of blissful service he, too, made a study—­crude and inartistic.

“Thy hand hath yet to learn its cunning,” the master said, as in much confusion, one morning when they were quite alone, his pupil revealed his roughly executed head; “yet thou hast painted the soul!  The heart hath done it, Signorino mio, for thou art not yet an artist.  There is no other lady for Marcantonio Giustiniani; yet she comes not of a noble house.”

“She makes it noble!” cried the young fellow, flushing hotly, “for she is like her face.”

“Ay, for me and thee she is noble,” said the Veronese compassionately, for he loved the boy.  “But for the noble Senator, thy father—­of the Council of the Ten—­he will not find this maiden’s name in the ’Libro d’Oro.’  I am sorry for thee.”

“Master!” cried Marcantonio imploringly, “art thou with me?”

“Verily, but I can do naught for thee.”

“Listen, then!  One day the nobles shall find that name inscribed in the ‘Libro d’Oro’; it shall be there, for mine shall suffice.”

The master answered nothing, but bending over the sketch which his pupil had made he caressed it, here and there, with loving touches of his magic brush, while the young nobleman poured forth his vehement speech, forgetting to watch the master’s fingers.

“Once in the annals of the Republic there is noted such a marriage; a daughter of Murano, of the house of Beroviero—­nay, not so beautiful as Marina—­wedded with one of our noblest names; and the children, by decree of the Senate, were written every one in the ‘Libro d’Oro.’”