hen, perhaps, my father will have faith in me. Till
then I will be brave, little one; so good night."

It _was_ a hard life for Nicolo--his mother dead, his father with no
care for his son's one great passion--music. Many a time the boy's
spirit failed, and he even grew to doubt his own powers under the cold
glance and cruel taunts which daily met him.

He was sitting one day, feeling even sadder than usual,--discontented
even with the sounds he drew from his instrument,--when Gianetta's
mother stood in the doorway.

"The child is ill," she said, hurriedly--"very ill, and calls ever for
you. Come."

So Nicolo went, and, though tossed with fever, his little friend
smiled on him. There was, however, a longing look in her eyes; but her
parched lips could not form a word.

"Is it the violin?" asked Nicolo, softly.

She smiled again, and Nicolo fetched his treasure.

"A sleeping song?" he questioned.

The little face grew calm and soft at his question. Sweetly the music
floated through the room, stilling the little sufferer, and comforting
the watchers. When he had finished, Gianetta stretched out her arms.

"Thank you, dear Nicolo," she said; "that was pleasant. Now I shall
sleep; but _you_ must never sleep; you have much else to do; you must
go out into the world, and be famous--go away far, far from here. Do
you mind my words? Will you remember them?"

And she lay back exhausted on her pillow, never more to ask for music
in this world. Gianetta was listening even then to the angels' song.

That night Nicolo sat beside the dead body of his little friend.
Lights burned, flowers were scattered round her, and prayers were said
without ceasing in all those long hours. It was the custom of the
country; it did not disturb the dead, and it comforted the living.

And when morning dawned, the friendless boy went back to his little
room across the road, and there he poured out his heart in a farewell
strain to his dear companion who had thus suddenly been snatched from
him.

There was no more now to be done but to fulfil her last command--to
go out into the world, and to make himself famous.

Did he do so?

Ask those who love music, and hold dear all great names in its roll of
fame, if they ever heard of Nicolo Paganini; for it is of his boyhood
that I write.

How far he owed his success in life to a little girl, each reader may
judge for himself. She certainly inspired him with courage when he was
very down-hea