One afternoon Raffaelle took Luca by the hand and said to him, “Come.”

He led the young man up to the table, beneath the unglazed window, where he had passed so many of these ninety days of the spring and summer.

Luca gave a great cry, and stood gazing, gazing, gazing.  Then he fell on his knees and embraced the little feet of the child:  it was the first homage that he, whose life became one beautiful song of praise, received from man.

“Dear Luca,” he said softly, “do not do that.  If it be indeed good, let us thank God.”

What his friend saw were the great oval dish and the great jar or vase standing with the sunbeams full upon them, and the brushes and the tools and the colors all strewn around.  And they shone with lustrous opaline hues and wondrous flame-like glories and gleaming iridescence, like melted jewels, and there were all manner of graceful symbols and classic designs wrought upon them; and their borders were garlanded with cherubs and flowers, bearing the arms of Montefeltro, and the landscapes were the tender, homely landscapes round about Urbino; and the mountains had the solemn radiance that the Apennines wore at eveningtime; and amidst the figures there was one supreme, white-robed, golden-crowned Esther, to whom the child painter had given the face of Pacifica.  And this wondrous creation, wrought by a baby’s hand, had safely and secretly passed the ordeal of the furnace, and had come forth without spot or flaw.

Luca ceased not from kneeling at the feet of Raffaelle, as ever since has kneeled the world.

“Oh, wondrous boy!  Oh, angel sent unto men!” sighed the poor ’prentice, as he gazed; and his heart was so full that he burst into tears.

“Let us thank God,” said little Raffaelle again; and he joined his small hands that had wrought this miracle, and said his Laus Domini.

When the precious jar and the great platter were removed to the wardrobe and shut up in safety behind the steel wards of the locker, Luca said timidly, feeling twenty years in age behind the wisdom of this divine child:  “But, dearest boy, I do not see how your marvelous and most exquisite accomplishment can advantage me.  Even if you would allow it to pass as mine, I could not accept such a thing; it would be a fraud, a shame:  not even to win Pacifica could I consent.”

“Be not so hasty, good friend,” said Raffaelle.  “Wait just a little longer yet and see.  I have my own idea.  Do trust in me.”

“Heaven speaks in you, that I believe,” said Luca, humbly.

Raffaelle answered not, but ran downstairs, and, passing Pacifica, threw his arms about her in more than his usual affectionate caresses.

“Pacifica, be of good heart,” he murmured, and would not be questioned, but ran homeward to his mother.

“Can it be that Luca has done well,” thought Pacifica; but she feared the child’s wishes had outrun his wisdom.  He could not be any judge, a child of seven years, even though he were the son of that good and honest painter and poet, Giovanni Sanzio.