“May I repeat a verse or two of poetry right here where we stand, uncle?” asked Margery.  “It keeps saying itself in my mind.  I think you all know it and who wrote it, but that is all the better.”

And in her own sweet way she recited James Russell Lowell’s beautiful tribute to Masaccio:—­

    “He came to Florence long ago
    And painted here these walls, that shone
    For Raphael and for Angelo,
    With secrets deeper than his own,
    Then shrank into the dark again,
    And died, we know not how or when.

    “The darkness deepened, and I turned
    Half sadly from the fresco grand;
    ‘And is this,’ mused I, ’all ye earned,
    High-vaulted brain and cunning hand,
    That ye to other men could teach
    The skill yourselves could never reach?’

* * * * *

    “Henceforth, when rings the health to those
    Who live in story and in song,
    O, nameless dead, that now repose
    Safe in oblivion’s chambers strong,
    One cup of recognition true
    Shall silently be drained to you!”

“But Masaccio does not need any other monument than this chapel.  He is not very badly off, I am sure, while this stands, and people come from all over the world to visit it,” exclaimed Malcom, as they left the Brancacci Chapel, and walked slowly down the nave of the church.

“Is this all he painted?” asked Barbara.

“There is one other fresco in the cloister of this same church, but it is sadly injured—­indeed half obliterated,” answered Mr. Sumner.  “That is all.  But his influence cannot be estimated.  What he, then a poor, unknown young man, working his very best upon these walls, accomplished for the great world of painting can never be measured.  He surely wrought ‘better than he knew.’  This was because he, for the first time in the history of modern painting, portrayed real life.  All the conventionalities that had hitherto clung, in a greater or less degree, to painting, were dropped by him; and thus the way was opened for the perfect representations of the High Renaissance which so soon followed.  We will next give some time to the study of the works of Ghirlandajo and Botticelli, who, with Filippino Lippi, who finished these frescoes which we have just been looking at, make a famous trio of Early Renaissance painters.”

After they had crossed Ponte alla Carraja, Margery said she wished to do some shopping on Via dei Fossi, which was close at hand—­that street whose shop windows are ever filled with most fascinating groups of sculptured marbles and bronzes, and all kinds of artistic bric-a-brac—­and begged her uncle to accompany her.

“I wish no one else to come,” she said, with her own little, emphatic nod.

“Oh, ho! secrets!” exclaimed Malcom; “so we must turn aside!”

“Do go to drive with me,” begged Howard.  “Here we are close to my hotel, and I can have the team ready right off.”