nk; but the boy pushed the goblet away, and his strange host
drank alone.

"You asked me for the musician's name," he said, with a merry twinkle
in his eye, from which every trace of artistic inspiration had faded;
"can you guess it now?" Nino seemed tongue-tied still, but he made an
effort.

"I have heard of Paganini," he said, "but he died years ago."

"Yes, he is dead, poor fellow! I am not Paganini."

"I am at a loss, then," said Nino, dreamily, "I do not know the names
of many violinists, but you must be so famous that I ought to know
yours."

"No; how should you? I will tell you. I am Benoni, the Jew." The tall
man's eyes twinkled more brightly than ever. Nino stared at him, and
saw that he was certainly of a pronounced Jewish type. His brown eyes
were long and oriental in shape, and his nose was unmistakably
Semitic.

"I am sorry to seem so ignorant," said Nino, blushing, "but I do not
know the name. I perceive, however, that you are indeed a very great
musician,--the greatest I ever heard." The compliment was perfectly
sincere, and Benoni's face beamed with pleasure. He evidently liked
praise.

"It is not extraordinary," he said smiling. "In the course of a very
long life it has been my only solace, and if I have some skill it is
the result of constant study. I began life very humbly."

"So did I," said Nino, thoughtfully, "and I am not far from the
humbleness yet."

"Tell me," said Benoni, with a show of interest, "where you come from,
and why you are a singer."

"I was a peasant's child, an orphan, and the good God gave me a voice.
That is all I know about it. A kind-hearted gentleman, who once owned
the estate where I was born, brought me up, and wanted to make a
philosopher of me. But I wanted to sing, and so I did."

"Do you always do the things you want to do?" asked the other, "You
look as though you might. You look like Napoleon--that man always
interested me. That is why I asked you to come and see me. I have
heard you sing, and you are a great artist--an additional reason. All
artists should be brothers. Do you not think so?"

"Indeed, I know very few good ones," said Nino simply; "and even among
them I would like to choose before claiming relationship--personally.
But Art is a great mother, and we are all her children."

"More especially we who began life so poorly, and love Art because she
loves us." Benoni seated himself on the arm of one of the old chairs,
and looked down across t