“Ah, that will be beautiful!” said Agnes.

“You can scarcely tell,” pursued the monk, “from this faint drawing, what the picture of our Lady is to be; but I shall paint her to the highest of my art, and with many prayers that I may work worthily.  You see, she shall be standing on a cloud with a background all of burnished gold, like the streets of the New Jerusalem; and she shall be clothed in a mantle of purest blue from head to foot, to represent the unclouded sky of summer; and on her forehead she shall wear the evening star, which ever shineth when we say the Ave Maria; and all the borders of her blue vesture shall be cunningly wrought with fringes of stars; and the dear Babe shall lean his little cheek to hers so peacefully, and there shall be a clear shining of love through her face, and a heavenly restfulness, that it shall do one’s heart good to look at her.  Many a blessed hour shall I have over this picture,—­many a hymn shall I sing as my work goes on.  I must go about to prepare the panels forthwith; and it were well, if there be that young man who works in stone, to have him summoned to our conference.”

“I think,” said Agnes, “that you will find him in the town; he dwells next to the cathedral.”

“I trust he is a youth of pious life and conversation,” said the monk.  “I must call on him this afternoon; for he ought to be stirring himself up by hymns and prayers, and by meditations on the beauty of saints and angels, for so goodly a work.  What higher honor or grace can befall a creature than to be called upon to make visible to men that beauty of invisible things which is divine and eternal?  How many holy men have given themselves to this work in Italy, till, from being overrun with heathen temples, it is now full of most curious and wonderful churches, shrines, and cathedrals, every stone of which is a miracle of beauty!  I would, dear daughter, you could see our great Duomo in Florence, which is a mountain of precious marbles and many-colored mosaics; and the Campanile that riseth thereby is like a lily of Paradise,—­so tall, so stately, with such an infinite grace, and adorned all the way up with holy emblems and images of saints and angels; nor is there any part of it, within or without, that is not finished sacredly with care, as an offering to the most perfect God.  Truly, our fair Florence, though she be little, is worthy, by her sacred adornments, to be worn as the lily of our Lady’s girdle, even as she hath been dedicated to her.”

Agnes seemed pleased with the enthusiastic discourse of her uncle.  The tears gradually dried from her eyes as she listened to him, and the hope so natural to the young and untried heart began to reassert itself.  God was merciful, the world beautiful; there was a tender Mother, a reigning Saviour, protecting angels and guardian saints:  surely, then, there was no need to despair of the recall of any wanderer; and the softest supplication of the most ignorant and unworthy would be taken up by so many sympathetic voices in the invisible world, and borne on in so many waves of brightness to the heavenly throne, that the most timid must have hope in prayer.