The next morning the ride around the city was an unparalleled delight. It came to an early end, for in the afternoon he was to sing for the famous maestro with the strange-sounding name, of whom he thought he should stand a bit in awe, but whom Miss Fleming said he need not fear at all. So before luncheon he had a long nap, and awoke as fresh as if he had never been tired.
When at last he was in the actual presence of Signor Castelvetro, he found himself looking into very gentle eyes and listening to a soft, musical voice that bade him a pleasant welcome.
To the surprise of Doodles he heard Miss Fleming talking with the Signore in his native tongue as fluently as if she were speaking English; but soon she turned to him, asking him to sing “Little Boy Blue” as he had sung it for her the week before.
Without the least hesitation Doodles sang, and the song sounded even better—so Miss Fleming thought—than in the little kitchen up in The Flatiron.
Signor Castelvetro gave him a quick word of thanks, and with many gestures, went on talking rapidly in mingled English and Italian, not much of which the boy could understand. Several times he caught the phrase, “the miracle voice,” and he wondered if it might refer to his own, and then felt himself blushing at so foolish a conjecture.
Presently he was singing again,—“Robin Adair,” “Nae Room for Twa,” “Lead, Kindly Light,” and others. He sang and sang, conscious only of the music and a sympathetic audience, sometimes forgetting his audience altogether.
The Signore’s praise was hearty and profuse, but given as it was in a mixture of languages Doodles knew little of what was said. Still he was sure that the great man liked his singing, and that made him glad indeed.
“My pupeels haf a musicale to-morrow efening,” Signor Castelvetro was saying. “I s’all be verra happee if you will sing for us.” He waited, smiling down on Doodles.
The lad glanced questioningly at Miss Fleming.
“You would like to sing?” she queried. “You would not be afraid?”