pretty much as she liked; so that she governed
his little household in her own way.
She was a comely girl, of quiet manners,
and soon became a favourite with all
Pulci's visitors. The engraver Savorini was
struck with love at first sight for her, and
offered to make her his wife; but she
replied calmly that she had engaged with
Signor Pulci to be his servant for three years,
and could not think of breaking her engagement.
"I will find a substitute," said Savorini.
"I cannot be replaced," she replied.
The engraver called her a Proserpine of
pride; and his courtship ended for the
time.

Master Pulci was busy with an important
group; the subject being Religion leaning
upon Science and Art—an allegory which
Italians are fond of developing. Although
not a first-class sculptor, he still occupied a
sufficient rank to bring him in contact
with all the celebrated artists of the day,
who used to come from time to time to
his studio. Maria was often called in for
one purpose or another, and listened greedily
to their animated discourses on genius and
its consequent fame. From the very outset
she began to feel yearnings after earthly
immortality. A year, however, passed before
a definite plan succeeded to her vague
impulses.

One day Pulci invited some of his friends
to dinner, Savorini amongst the rest. The
meal was taken in the studio, and the conversation
naturally turned upon art. All spoke
enthusiastically; for all were Italians, and
were deeply devoted to their various departments.
Savorini, who still retained a strong
sentiment for Maria, and perhaps wished to
dazzle her (she was moving quietly to and
fro performing her usual duties; but listening
to all that was said with respectful attention)
rather exaggerated the dignity and the
privileges of the profession to which they all
belonged. Kings and emperors, the Pope
himself, he said, ranked below great artists;
and it was better to have produced that Diana
—pointing to a clay model, which Pulci had
just finished—than to guide the councils of
nations. "I place my art," he added, "not
quite on an equality with yours, signori, but
I own no superiors except you; for I also feel
that I have a spark of something divine
within me."

He talked much in this strain, being excited
by the good Lachryma Christi and by
the presence of Maria. Although the girl
admired what he said, she in no wise set it
down to his account in the way he would
have desired. She looked upon him only as
an interpreter of truth, and went about the
room—and backward and forward between
it and the kitchen—pondering whether she
had not also a spark of something divine
within her. "Yes, I have it!" she said at
length. As she said this, she pushed against
Angela, an old dame who had come in to
assist her in her duties, let go the dish that
held the stewed prunes, and broke it, splashing
the rich red juice over her own white
stockings.

"Are they quite spoiled?" inquired
Savorini. She gave him a familiar push, as
if she was removing one of her father's
heifers out of her way. "Let her alone!"
cried Pulci. "We must not punish her for
her accident. She has not chipped a statue
or a model since she has been with me."

"I would rather break one of my own
limbs," she exclaimed. "Brava!" cried they
all; and, after complimenting her, they went
on talking of their art, as cheerily as if they
had not been disappointed of stewed prunes.
Meanwhile, Maria became more and more
convinced that there was a spark of something
divine within her.

From that time she began in secret—in
her own little bed-room—to endeavour to
produce some of the forms of beauty that
filled her mind. The clay became life-like in
her hands; and, in a very short time, she
almost started with surprise at beholding a
lovely countenance looking out from the
unformed mass which she had placed on her
window-sill. A natural fear of being ridiculed
and repressed, prevented her from confiding
her projects and her studies to her master.
But her secret was too troublesome to be
kept entirely to herself. At first she thought
of the engraver Savorini; and possibly it
would have been well had his honest love
then found favour in her eyes. But the
remembrances of his rough gallantries made
her fearful of confiding in him. There was
Caterina, the daughter of Angela; but, when
she came to gossip of evenings, all her talk
was about the handsome cavaliers who looked
at her in church—impious men—and followed
her home, trying to talk nonsense. This was
not a proper confidante; so she chose my
old doctor, Corona, who had attended her
in an illness, and had won her confidence by
his benevolent manners. She went to him,
made him promise secrecy as if she had been
going to confess a murder, and revealed that
she felt the power to become a great artist.

"My fame will fill the world," said she.

"But will it fill your heart ? "

"That is full already—of hope."

He saw that she did not come for advice
but encouragement; and he encouraged her.
He would have preferred had she told
all to Master Pulci; but that artist, though
good and kind, had something cold and
satirical in his manner. "He will never
believe in me," said Maria, "until he sees
that I can do something. He is not a man
of faith. Besides, who will admit genius in
the person that cooks one's dinner? These
hands that have made so many messes can do
nothing but spoil marble, he will think."

"She must take care," thought Corona,
"not to deceive herself as to the motive that
makes her unwilling to communicate her