and whose sudden and pathetic
death had touched her with pity. She appeared unusually affectionate to
her husband and to his sister, and she despatched the Count to secure a
residence in Vienna, where she expressed her intention of taking the
entire family as soon as the Prince had satisfied his newly-awakened
conscience by a sight of Wertheim. The children were delighted with the
thought, and were apparently consoled for the absence of their tutor.
Perhaps already his tales had begun to tire.

The Maestro and Carricchio were walking side by side upon the terrace
where Mark was used to sit.

"I shall make a sensation at Vienna," said the Maestro; "that little
girl is growing into an impassioned actress with a marvellous voice. I
have an idea. I have already arranged the score. I shall throw this
story into the form of opera--a serious opera, not one of your farcical
things. It is a charming story, most pathetic, and will make people cry.
That boy's character was exquisite: 'Ah,' they will say, 'that lovely
child!'"

"I don't understand your pathos," said Carricchio crossly,--"the pathos
of composers and writers and imaginative men. It is all ideal. You talk
of farce, I prefer the jester's farce. I never knew any of you to weep
over any real misery--any starving people, any loathsome, sordid poor!"

"I should think not," said the Maestro; "there is nothing delightful in
real misery--it is loathsome, as you say; it is horrible, it is
disagreeable even! Art never contemplates the disagreeable; it would
cease to be true art if it did. But when you are happy yourself, when
you are surrounded by comfort and luxury--_then_ to contemplate misery,
sorrow, woe! Ah! this is the height of luxury: this is art! Yes, true
art!"

"It seems selfish, to me," said the Arlecchino surlily.

"Selfish!" exclaimed the Maestro; "of course it is selfish! Unless it is
selfish it cannot be art. Art has an end, an aim, an intention--if it
deserts this aim it ceases to be art. It must be selfish."

There was a slight pause, then the Maestro, who seemed to be in great
spirits, went on:

"I always thought the Prince a poor creature, now I am sure of it. He is
neither one thing nor the other. He will never be an artist, in the true
sense."

"He is very sorry for that poor child," said Carricchio.

"Sorry!" exclaimed the Maestro. "Sorry! I tell you when the canary died
I was delighted, but I am still more delighted now. I predict to you a
g