"What do you call Raphael's greatest picture?" asked Barbara, as they turned from the frescoed walls.
"These are his most important frescoes," replied Mr. Sumner; "and all critics agree that his most famous easel picture is the Madonna di San Sisto in the Dresden Gallery. This is so very familiar to you that it needs no explanation. It was, you know, his last Madonna, and it contains a hint of Divinity in both mother and child never attained by any painter before or since."
"When shall we see Raphael's tapestries?" asked Margery, as they finally passed on through halls and corridors.
"I hardly think I will go with you to see those, Madge dear," answered her uncle. "There is no further need that I explain any of Raphael's work to you. Your books and your own critical tastes, which are pretty well formed by this time, will be quite sufficient. Indeed," looking around until he caught Barbara's eyes, "I really think you can study all the remaining paintings in Rome by yourselves," and he was made happy by seeing the swift regret which clouded them.
"When we return to Florence," he added, "you will be more interested than when we were there before in looking at Raphael's Madonnas and portraits in those galleries; and on our way from Florence to Venice, we will stop at Bologna to see his St. Cecilia".
"How perfectly delightful!" cried Bettina. "I have been wishing to see that ever since we went to the church of St. Cecilia the other day. I was greatly interested to know that it had once been her own home, and in everything there connected with her. She was so brave, and true, and good! It seems as if Raphael could have painted a worthy picture of her!"
As Bettina suddenly checked her pretty enthusiasm, her face flushed painfully, and Barbara, seeking the cause, caught the supercilious smile with which Miss Sherman was regarding her sister. She at once divined that poor Bettina feared that, in some way, she had made herself ridiculous to the older lady.
Going swiftly to her sister she threw her arm closely about her waist, and with a charming air of defiance,—with erect head and flashing eyes, said:—
"Mr. Sumner, St. Cecilia is a real, historical character, is she not? As much so as St. Francis, Nero, or Marcus Aurelius?" The slight emphasis on the last name recalled to all the party the effusive eulogiums Miss Sherman had lavished upon that famous imperial philosopher a few days before, while they were looking at his bust in the museum of Palazzo Laterano; when, unfortunately, she had imputed to him certain utterances that rightfully belong to another literary man who lived in quite a different age and country.
Mr. Sumner could not avoid a merry twinkle of his eyes as he strove to answer with becoming gravity, and Malcom hastily pushed on far in advance.