e, and makes no pretence but to cause a passing moment's
entertainment."

With which Theodore produced his manuscript, and began as follows:

"AN INTERRUPTED CADENCE.

"In the Berlin autumn Exhibition of 1814, there was a charming picture
of Hummel's, called 'A Scene in an Italian Locanda,' which attracted
much attention. It was both light and vigorous, and had all the effect
of representing a real occurrence. The scene was a garden-arbour, thick
with the luxuriant leafage of the South. Two Italian ladies, seated
opposite to one another, at a table, with wine and fruit--one of
them singing, the other accompanying her on a guitar. Between them,
and behind the table, an _abbate_, standing beating the time, as
music-director; his hand was raised, as a conductor's is when a singer
is executing a _cadenza_, watching carefully and anxiously for the
precise instant when the singer--evidently warbling out her cadence,
with eyes upraised to the sky--should come in with her _trillo_--her long
shake; at the precise termination of which it would be his duty to make
his down-beat, on which signal the guitarist should strike in with her
chord of the dominant. The _abbate_, all admiration and intense
enjoyment, was watching for the proper instant to made his down-beat as
a cat watches a mouse. Not if his life depended on it would he depass
that precise instant by a hair's-breadth. Fain would he muzzle every
fly, every mosquito, humming about under the leaves. Most distressful
to him the approach of the landlord, who had selected that particular
moment to come in with more wine. Beyond the arbour, in the middle
distance, a shaded alley, with streams of bright sunlight breaking
athwart it through the branches; and a man on horseback, drinking a
cool draught, served to him by a girl from the _locanda_.

"Edward and Theodore were standing studying this picture; and Edward
said:

"'The more I look at this picture; at that lady singing--not quite so
young as she has been, but inspired by genuine artistic enthusiasm--at
the pure, intellectual Roman profile, and the magnificent figure of the
lady accompanying on the guitar, and at the delicious little _abbate_
beating the time, the more convinced I am that they are portraits of
real, living persons. I feel as if I should like to step into that
arbour and open one of those delightful wicker-covered flasks that are
smiling at me on that table there. I can almos