"We had a fine procession this morning, Ambrogio," he said. "The Duke of Orleans' retinue went by, a gay sight. We hoped to see the Duke ride out to meet him, but my lord Gian Visconti keeps himself close. For all we live so near the gate, I have never seen him, or only in his helmet; and yet 'tis said he cares a good deal for sculpture and for painting, and will make a fine thing of this grand new church he's building. I would love to see what a tyrant and a painter both may look like." Ambrogio, bending over his painting, returned no answer; but that made small difference to the talkative little man, who continued: "He came not, however, so we contented ourselves with the French Prince, who is to marry the Lady Valentine. Graziosa did not care for him; I thought him well-looking enough." "His air was not a gay one, and he seems foolish," said Graziosa; "and since he is not marrying for love, I am sorry for the Lady Valentine." "Thou art always sorrowing for some one," said her father. "A princess never marries for love." "Then I am glad I am no princess," smiled Graziosa, looking up at her betrothed. Ambrogio raised her hand to his lips and kissed it in silence. Agnolo continued his recitals, refreshing himself every now and again with renewed glances from the window. "A splendid view we have here, only some processions are not so pleasant as the one that passed to-day. There was one in particular--some weeks ago--we stayed in the back of the house that day. The old Visconti rode to Brescia, the soldiers said, his son behind him! Ah, for that day's work the Duke is a lost soul, Ambrogio." There was a silence after this; the painter kept his eyes on the darkening sky. Ambrogio dropped his brush and rose with a pale face. "I can paint no more," he said. "I am weary." His daughter's lover sometimes puzzled him. His history, as he had told it to them, was a very plain one, his career straightforward, but Ambrogio's manner strangely varied: sometimes authoritative, strangely cold and haughty for a poor painter; strident, sometimes curious and overawing. But to Graziosa he was always tender, and she saw nothing now but his pale face. "No wonder thou art weary," she said tenderly. "'Tis a long way from St. Joseph, thy hand pains thee, and thou hast had no food." Ambrogio stooped and kissed her upon her upturned face. "And I cannot stay for it even to take it from thy hands," he said with a sigh. "I meant not to stay at all, and only came to give thee thy bracelet, sweet; but soon, soon the altar-piece will be finished, and I come never to return." "Finished," murmured the girl, her head against his arm. "When?" "By midsummer, Graziosa. Is the time so long to thee too?" "I am so happy, Ambrogio, it does not seem possible I could be happier; still, I think I shall be when thy altar-piece is finished." Ambrogio looked at his painting longingly. "If I could only stay," he said, and kissed her again.