fine, and always according to the latest fashion; of his idle, free, careless ways, of his handsome face, of his superabundance of pocket-money.

"Your son lives like a prince," a neighbour said once to Pica.

"What is that to you!" retorted Pica, "our son does indeed live like a prince. Have patience, the day may come when he will live like the Son of God."

But in truth that day seemed long in coming, and the neighbours might well be forgiven when they said among themselves that young Francis Bernardone was being utterly spoiled. It was quite true. Frank, gay, good-tempered, easily led, fond of all kinds of beauty and soft living, the life of indulgence and ease and pleasure that he was brought up in was not the one that would best fit him for the battle of life. Pietro was rich, and he was also exceeding proud of his handsome gay son. It delighted him more than anything else to hear people say that he looked like a prince of royal blood, and he denied him nothing that money could procure.

As he grew up into young manhood, Francis nominally assisted his father in his business as cloth merchant. His duties, however, were very light, and he was known more as a leader among the gay youth of Assisi than as a rising business man. He was always chosen as the leader of the sumptuous feasts that the young men of that era wiled away the evening hours with. After the feast was over, Francis used to lead his band out into the streets, and there under those glorious starry skies they finished the night singing the then popular love songs of France and Italy. As Francis was intensely musical, and possessed a very fine voice, he was indispensable at these revelries.

He was almost twenty-five before he had his first serious thought. Up to then life had been an enchanted dream. Francis, with his handsome face, beautiful courteous manners, and full pockets the centre of it. He had seen life outside Assisi, for he had fought for his country and suffered imprisonment. He had travelled a little, was fairly well educated, and what was rare in those days spoke and sang in the French language. Of God he seems to have had no knowledge whatever. His kindly, polite nature led him to much almsgiving, but that was merely the outcome of a disposition which hated to see suffering.

Francis' lack of religion is not much to be wondered at when we look at the state of the church in his time. Christianity had become old, its first freshness had worn off, and its primitive teaching had fallen into decay. A Christian's life was an easy one, and the service rendered was more of church-going and almsgiving, than purity of heart and life. In many instances those who filled the office of teacher and preacher were corrupt, and lived only for themselves, and the whole tendency of the times was to the most extreme laxity.

When almost twenty-five years old, Francis had a very severe illness. For weeks he lay at death's door, and for weeks after all danger was passed, he was confined to the house too weak to move. As his weary convalescence dragged itself along, one absorbing desire filled his mind. If only he could get out of doors, and stand once again in the sunshine, and feast his eyes on the landscape below him! Francis, like all Italians, was a passionate lover of his native country, and at last, one day, he wearily and painfully crawled out.

But what was the matter? The sunshine was there. It flooded the country. The breeze that was to bring him new life and vigor played among his chestnut curls. The mountains towered in their noble grandeur. The wide Umbrian plain lay stretched out at his feet. The skies were as blue, and the flowers as gay and sweet, as ever his fancy painted them. But the young man turned away with a sickening sense of disappointment and failure.

"Things that perish," he said mournfully to himself, and thought bitterly of his past life with its gaiety and frivolity. It, too, was among the "things that perish." Life was a dreary emptiness.

It was the old, old story. "Thou hast made us for Thyself, oh God, and the heart is restless till it finds its rest in Thee." That tide which flows at least once in the life of every human being was surging round Francis. Happy they who, leaving all else, cast themselves into the infinite ocean of the Divine will and design.

CHAPTER II.

A Change.

As health returned, Francis determined that he would no longer waste his life. He had spent a quarter of a century in ease, and pleasure, and amusement. Now, some way or other, there should be a change. Religion to Francis meant acting up to all the duties of his church. This he had already done, and not for a moment did he dream that there was in what he called "religion" any balm for a sore and wounded spirit. It never occurred to him to seek in prayer the mind of the Lord concerning his future. Oh, no, it was many a long day before Francis knew the real meaning of the word prayer. He was convinced of his wrong, and determined to right it. That was as far as he had got. What to do was now the great question.

Just about this time, a nobleman of Assisi, Walter of Brienne, was about to start for Apulia, to take part in a war which was going on there. All at once it occurred to Francis that he would go too. He was naturally courageous, and visions filled his mind of the deeds he would do, and the honours that would be bestowed upon him.

He hastened at once to the nobleman and begged to be allowed to accompany him. Permission was granted, and Francis set about getting his outfit ready. His rich costume was far more splendid than that of Walter himself, and the trappings of his horse and his general accoutrements were all in keeping, so that altogether Francis was a very magnificent personage indeed!

A few nights before he started, he dreamed a strange dream. He was sleeping, and he thought somebody called him out of his sleep.

"Francis, Francis," said a voice.

Then it seemed to Francis that he awoke and found himself in a vast armoury. All around him hung shields and spears and swords, and weapons of all kinds. But the most curious part of it was that each weapon was marked with a cross. In his heart he wondered what it could all mean, and as he was wondering, the voice answered his thoughts.

"These are for thee and for thy followers," it said, and then Francis awoke.

It was an age when dreams were counted of much importance, and Francis rejoiced over this of his. Heaven, he said to himself, had smiled upon his enterprise. God had undertaken to lead him by the hand, and to what heights could he not aspire! Dreams of earthly honor and distinction floated through his brain as he dressed, and when he went downstairs everybody asked what made him look so radiant.

"I have the certainty of becoming a great prince," he answered.

Yes, truly, he was to be a prince among men! Could he have seen then the rough road that God was preparing for him, would he have drawn back? Happily for us, we live a day at a time, and further than that our eyes are holden.

With a great deal of pomp and display, at the appointed time Francis mounted his horse and set off. But his journey was a short one.