"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted to enter. I am a musician."
The girl blushed and the young man looked grave—somewhat annoyed.
"I—I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend. "You wish to hear—that is, you would like—that is—shall I play for you?"
There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment, and all smiled involuntarily.
"Thank you," said the shoemaker; "but our harpsichord is so wretched, and we have no music."
"No music!" echoed my friend. "How, then, does the fraulein—"
He paused and coloured up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw that she was blind.
"I—I entreat your pardon," he stammered; "but I had not perceived before.
Then you play from ear?"
"Entirely."
"And where do you hear the music; since you frequent no concerts?"