"Visconti! who wishes to talk of him?" returned the little painter. "Tales have come to me about him, too terrible to repeat before our Graziosa," he added, lowering his voice. "You gossip too much with the soldiers, father," said Graziosa. "I do not love the soldiers, nor should you listen to their tales about Visconti." "They would seem to tell them a little too freely," murmured her lover, and drew his brows together. "What dost thou mean, Graziosa?" cried her father, "as if it were only from the soldiers we hear of the Duke. Lately some fine tales have got about, and on no soldier's authority." "Shall we not set to work on the pictures?" interrupted Ambrogio. "You said, methinks, these tales were not for Graziosa's ears." "Indeed, 'tis true," and the little painter bustled to the second easel and drew the curtain that hung before the large panel, revealing an almost completed picture of St. Catherine in scarlet robes. "Thy work looks well, Ambrogio," he said, and removing a similar covering from the easel by which Ambrogio sat, gazed at the companion panel on which was depicted the archangel Michael. "But mine is better," he added, "as it should be: thy work will improve with thy years." "'Tis as fine work as thy St. Michael, father," said Graziosa, "and a good likeness." "Nay, not so fair by half as thou art," murmured Ambrogio. "Thou art not easy to copy, Graziosa." Agnolo was studying his picture intently. "'Twas an idle fancy to take thee as my model for St. Michael," he said at length. "Thou dost not inspire me as St. Michael, Ambrogio." "As what then?" asked his daughter, smiling at her father's earnestness. Agnolo laughed. "As no saint at all," he said. "He is like nothing but the wicked young man reclaimed in the legend of St. Francis, and not very reclaimed either!" Graziosa smiled still more, but Ambrogio faintly flushed and bit his lip. "Thou art welcome to paint me in that character another time," he said. "Meanwhile, I will work on my St. Catherine's robe." And he seated himself on a low stool before the easel, Graziosa placing herself on the floor at his feet. Agnolo scrutinized the St. Michael once more, but finally drew the curtain again along the rod, for his day's work was over. Settling himself in the window-seat, for a while he contentedly watched the other two; but not for long could the little painter keep his tongue still, and Ambrogio's visits were a fine opportunity for voluble talk, for the young man lived in Como, and was he not now shut up in the convent of St. Joseph, five miles away, painting an altar-piece for avaricious monks who grudged him even these occasional visits into Milan? What could he know of the city's news?