They were very near together, and even at the top the
space between them was so narrow that the sky seemed to come down, and
the clouds to be sailing but just over them, as if they would catch and
tear in the fir-trees. The path was so little used that it had grown
green, and as he ran he knocked dead branches out of his way. Just as he
was getting tired of running he reached the end of the path, and came out
into a wheat-field. The wheat did not grow very closely, and the spaces
were filled with azure corn-flowers. St. Guido thought he was safe away
now, so he stopped to look.
Those thoughts and feelings which are not sharply defined but have a haze
of distance and beauty about them are always the dearest. His name was
not really Guido, but those who loved him had called him so in order to
try and express their hearts about him. For they thought if a great
painter could be a little boy, then he would be something like this one.
They were not very learned in the history of painters: they had heard of
Raphael, but Raphael was too elevated, too much of the sky, and of
Titian, but Titian was fond of feminine loveliness, and in the end
somebody said Guido was a dreamy name, as if it belonged to one who was
full of faith.
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