Brother Francis; Or, Less than the Least

by Eileen Douglas

WILLIAM BOOTH.
International Headquarters,
London.

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BROTHER FRANCIS.

OR,

LESS THAN THE LEAST.

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CHAPTER I.

Assisi And Francis.

"Hands love clasped through charmèd hours,
Feet that press the bruisèd flowers,
Is there naught for you to dare,
That ye may his signet wear?"

You will not be likely to find Assisi marked on any ordinary map of Italy. It is far too unimportant a place for that. That is to say, geographically unimportant. Assisi lies half-way up the Appenines. The houses, which are built of a curious kind of rosy-tinted stone, press so closely together one above the other on the rocks, so that each house seems trying to look over its neighbours' head. The result of this is that from every window you have one of the grandest views in Europe. Above, the mountains tower into the sky, and yet they are not so close as to suggest crowding. Beneath lies stretched out the Umbrian plain, the centre and heart of Italy. With its rich harvests, plentiful streams and luxuriant vegetation, it might well be called the Eden of Italy.