“He grew most careless in his ways of living,—­was dissipated we should call it,—­squandered his money, and finally, in order to gain the wherewithal for daily life, used to paint by order of those who stood waiting to take his pictures with paint still wet, lest the artist should cheat them.  To this we owe the great number of his worthless Madonna and Magdalen heads that have found their way into the galleries.”

“How perfectly dreadful,” chorused all.

“I am afraid we shall never see one of his pictures without thinking of this,” said Bettina; “shall we, Barbara?” and she turned to her sister, who had been silent hitherto, as if longing to hear her talk.

“Try to forget it now as you look at these paintings, for this room contains many of his,” continued Mr. Sumner, after waiting a moment as if to hear Barbara’s answer, “and they are examples of his early work, and so stronger than many others.  Notice the powerful action of this Samson and the St. John in that Crucifixion.

“Here are good examples of the work of the three Carracci,” continued he, as after a time they entered the adjoining hall.

“But what does this mean?” cried Malcom, in an astonished voice, pausing before a large picture, the Communion of St. Jerome, which bore the name, Agostino Carracci.  “How like it is to Domenichino’s great picture in the Vatican!  Do you suppose Domenichino borrowed so much from his master?”

“I fear so.  Yet his picture is infinitely superior to this.  And, look, here is Domenichino’s Death of St. Peter, Martyr, which was borrowed largely from Titian’s famous picture of the same subject, which has unfortunately been destroyed.”

“But don’t you call that a species of plagiarism?” queried Malcom.

“Undoubtedly it is.  I must confess I am always sorry for Domenichino when I come into this hall.  But we will pass on to better things.  I wish you to study particularly these pictures by Francia,” said he, as they entered a third hall.—­“Yes, Betty, you are excusable.  You all may look first at Raphael’s St. Cecilia, for here it is.”

All gathered about the beautiful, famous picture.

“How much larger than I have ever thought!” said Margery.  “For what was it painted, uncle?”

“As an altar-piece for one of the oldest churches in Bologna.  Do you recollect the story about Raphael’s writing to Francia to oversee its proper and safe placing?”

“Oh, I do!” exclaimed Barbara, as Margery shook her head.  “It was said that Francia never painted again, so overcome was he by the surpassing loveliness of Raphael’s picture, and that he died from the effect of this feeling,—­but,” she went on impetuously, “I do not believe it; for see there!” pointing to Francia’s Madonna with Sts.  John and Jerome, “do you think that the artist who painted this picture is so very far behind even Raphael as to die of vexation at the difference between them?”