Once the little chapel of San Damiano has been seen there can be no fear of ever forgetting the charm attached to the memory of St. Clare, for she has left there something of her own character and personality, which we feel instinctively without being able quite to explain its presence. So near the town, only just outside its walls, this little sanctuary yet remains as in the olden times, one of the most peaceful spots that could have been chosen for a nunnery; but the silence which falls upon one while resting on the stone seats before entering the courtyard, has this difference with the silence of such a piazza as that of San Rufino or of some of the Assisan streets; that there the buildings tell of an age which is dead whose memories raise no responsive echoes in our hearts, whereas San Damiano is filled with the associations of those who, living so long ago, yet have left the atmosphere of their presence as a living influence among us. As we look at the steep paths below us leading through the fields and the oak trees down to the plain, to Rivo-Torto and the Portiuncula, we think how often St. Francis went up and down it whenever he passed to see St. Clare and her sisters. And how many times did Brother Bernard come with messages when he lay dying, and news was anxiously awaited at San Damiano; then along the grass path skirting the hill from Porta Mojano were seen the crowds of nobles, townsfolk, peasants and friars bearing the dead body of the saint to San Giorgio, and pausing awhile at the convent for the love of St. Clare. A pope with all his cardinals next passes, on a visit to the young abbess; St. Bonaventure stops to ask her prayers; while the poor and the ill were ever knocking at the convent door to obtain her help or a word of kindly sympathy. In the Umbrian land it is so easy to realise these things, they are more than simply memories for those who have time to pause and dream awhile; and sometimes it has seemed, while reading the _Fioretti_ or Brother Leo's chronicle beneath the olive trees of San Damiano, that we have slipped back through the ages, and looking up we half expect to see the hurrying figure of St. Francis moving quickly in and out among the trees. Suddenly the low sound of chanting comes through the open door of the convent reaching us like the incessant drone of a swarm of bees in the sunshine, until it dies away, and brown-clothed, sandalled brethren pass out across the courtyard, and two by two disappear down the hill on their way to the Portiuncula. They bring a whole gallery of portraits before our eyes, of brethren we read of, the companions of St. Francis; but when we look along the path they have taken and see the church of the Angeli standing high in the midst of the broad valley, its dome showing dark purple against the afternoon light, where we had thought to catch a glimpse of the Portiuncula and a circle of mud huts, the dream of the olden time fades suddenly away.