"Your blessing is well timed, my honored friend," said Giovanni, "our festival is given to celebrate the birthday of our son." "Is this his birthday?" inquired Perugino. "Not so," replied the father, "he was born on April 7th, the evening of _Good Friday_, and it well befits us to be gay on the joyful Easter that succeeds it." "My friend," said Perugino, "if thou wilt entrust thy boy to my care, I will take him as my pupil." The father acceded with delight to this proposal. When the mother became acquainted with the arrangement, and found that her son was to quit his paternal dwelling at the early age of twelve, and reside wholly with Perugino, she could not restrain her tears. With hers the young Raphael's mingled, though ever and anon a bright smile darted like a sunbeam across his face. He remained with Perugino several years. Raphael was made for affection, and fondly did his heart cling to his instructor. For a time he was content to follow his manner; but at length he began to dwell upon his own beau ideal; he grew impatient of imitation, and felt that his style was deficient in freshness and originality. He longed to pass the narrow bounds to which his invention had been confined. With the approbation of Perugino and the consent of his parents, he repaired to Siena; here he was solicited to adorn the public library with fresco, and painted there with great success. But while he was busily engaged, his friend, Pinturrichio, one day entered. After looking at his friend's work very attentively, "Bravo!" he exclaimed, "thou hast done well, my Raphael--but I have just returned from Florence--oh, would that thou couldst behold the works of Leonardo da Vinci! Such horses! they paw the ground and shake the foam from their manes. Oh, my poor Raphael! thou hast never seen nature; thou art wasting time on these cartoons. Perugino is a good man and a good painter, I will not deny that--but Leonardo's horses!" Raphael threw aside his pencil and hastily rose. "Where now?" asked his friend; "whither art thou going so hastily?" "To Florence," exclaimed Raphael. "And what carries you so suddenly?" "The horses of Leonardo," replied the young artist, sportively; "seriously, however, the desire of excellence implanted in my soul."