Agnes looked up to him with humble awe, as to some celestial being; but there was a sympathetic glow in her face, and she put her hands on her bosom, as her manner often was when much moved, and, drawing a deep sigh, said,—­

“Would that such gifts were mine!”

“They are thine, sweet one,” said the monk.  “In Christ’s dear kingdom is no mine or thine, but all that each hath is the property of the others.  I never rejoice so much in my art as when I think of the communion of saints, and that all that our Blessed Lord will work through me is the property of the humblest soul in his kingdom.  When I see one flower rarer than another, or a bird singing on a twig, I take note of the same, and say, ’This lovely work of God shall be for some shrine, or the border of a missal, or the foreground of an altar-piece, and thus shall his saints be comforted.’”

“But,” said Agnes, fervently, “how little can a poor young maiden do!  Ah, I do so long to offer myself up in some way to the dear Lord, who gave himself for us, and for his Most Blessed Church!”

As Agnes spoke these words, her cheek, usually so clear and pale, became suffused with a tremulous color, and her dark eyes had a deep, divine expression;—­a moment after, the color slowly faded, her head drooped, and her long, dark lashes fell on her cheek, while her hands were folded on her bosom.  The eye of the monk was watching her with an enkindled glance.

“Is she not the very presentment of our Blessed Lady in the Annunciation?” said he to himself.  “Surely, this grace is upon her for this special purpose.  My prayers are answered.

“Daughter,” he began, in a gentle tone, “a glorious work has been done of late in Florence under the preaching of our blessed Superior.  Could you believe it, daughter, in these times of backsliding and rebuke there have been found painters base enough to paint the pictures of vile, abandoned women in the character of our Blessed Lady; yea, and princes have been found wicked enough to buy them and put them up in churches, so that the people have had the Mother of all Purity presented to them in the guise of a vile harlot.  Is it not dreadful?”

“How horrible!” said Agnes.

“Ah, but you should have seen the great procession through Florence, when all the little children were inspired by the heavenly preaching of our dear Master.  These dear little ones, carrying the blessed cross and singing the hymns our Master had written for them, went from house to house and church to church, demanding that everything that was vile and base should be delivered up to the flames,—­and the people, beholding, thought that the angels had indeed come down, and brought forth all their loose pictures and vile books, such as Boccaccio’s romances and other defilements, and the children made a splendid bonfire of them in the Grand Piazza, and so thousands of vile things were consumed and scattered.  And then our blessed