ged to slip it under
a pile of music near by, singing so lustily all the while that the
maestro never looked round.

When he got to the end of the scale Ercole began hunting for the
music, and as he could not find it, Nino asked him questions.

"Can she sing,--this contessina of yours, maestro?" De Pretis was
overturning everything in his search.

"An apoplexy on those solfeggi and on the man who made them!" he
cried. "Sing, did you say? Yes, a great deal better than you ever
will. Why can you not look for your music, instead of chattering?"
Nino began to look where he knew it was not.

"By the by, do you give her lessons every day?" asked the boy.

"Every day? Am I crazy, to ruin people's voices like that?"

"Caro maestro, what is the matter with you this morning? You have
forgotten to say your prayers!"

"You are a donkey, Nino; here he is, this blessed Bordogni,--now
come."

"Sor Ercole mio," said Nino in despair, "I must really know something
about this angel, before I sing at all." Ercole sat down on the piano
stool, and puffed up his cheeks, and heaved a tremendous sigh, to show
how utterly bored he was by his pupil. Then he took a large pinch of
snuff, and sighed again.

"What demon have you got into your head?" he asked, at length.

"What angel, you mean," answered Nino, delighted at having forced the
maestro to a parley. "I am in love with her--crazy about her," he
cried, running his fingers through his curly hair, "and you must help
me to see her. You can easily take me to her house to sing duets as
part of her lesson. I tell you I have not slept a wink all night for
thinking of her, and unless I see her I shall never sleep again as
long as I live. Ah!" he cried, putting his hands on Ercole's
shoulders, "you do not know what it is to be in love! How everything
one touches is fire, and the sky is like lead, and one minute you are
cold and one minute you are hot, and you may turn and turn on your
pillow all night and never sleep, and you want to curse everybody you
see, or to embrace them, it makes no difference--anything to express
the--"

"Devil! and may he carry you off!" interrupted Ercole, laughing. But
his manner changed. "Poor fellow," he said presently, "it appears to
me you are in love."

"It appears to you, does it? 'Appears'--a beautiful word, in faith. I
can tell you it appears to me so, too. Ah! it 'appears' to you--very
good indeed!" And Nino waxed wroth.

"I will give you some ad