The carriage arrived, and no brace of boys dashed from unexpected lurking-places to claim a portion of its seats. The carriage rolled off in safety, and Mrs. Burton fell into an impromptu service of praise to the kind power which often blesses us when we least expect to be blessed. The carriage reached the house and the terrible Mrs. Weathervane turned out to be one of the most charming of young women, before whose sunny temperament Mrs. Burton’s assumed dignity melted like the snow of May, and her store of venerable family anecdotes disappeared at once from the memory which had guarded them jealously.
THE SQUEAK OF THE VIOLIN AND THE WAIL OF A BADLY PLAYED WIND INSTRUMENT
But joy is never unalloyed in this wicked world. While the couple were chatting merrily, and Mrs. Weathervane was insisting that Mrs. Burton should visit her at Washington during the session, and Mrs. Burton was trying to persuade Mrs. Weathervane to accept the Burton hospitality for at least a day or two, there arose under the window the squeak of violin and the wail of some badly played wind instrument.
“Those wretched little Italians!” exclaimed Mrs. Weathervane. “For which of our sins, I wonder, are we condemned to listen to them?”
“If they come as punishment for sins,” said Mrs. Burton, “how wicked I must be, for this is my second experience with them to-day. They were at my house for half an hour this morning.”
“And you are sweet of disposition this afternoon?” said Mrs. Weathervane. “Oh! I must spend a day or two with you, and take some lessons in saintly patience.”
Mrs. Burton inclined her head in acknowledgment, and Mrs. Weathervane approached some other topic, when the violin under the window gave vent to a series of terrible groans of anguish, while the wind-instrument, apparently a flute, shrieked discordantly in three notes an octave apart from each other.
“An attempt to execute something upon one string, I suppose,” said Mrs. Weathervane, “and the execution is successful only as criminal executions are. What should be done to the little wretches? And yet one can’t help giving them money; did you see the story of their terrible life in the newspapers this week? It seems they are hired in Italy by dreadful men, who bring them here, torture them into learning their wretched tunes and then send them out to play and beg. They are terribly whipped if they do not bring home a certain sum of money every day.”
“The poor little things!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. “I’m glad that I gave them a good many pennies this morning. I must have had an intuition of their fate, for I’m certain I had no musical enjoyment to be paid for. They can hardly be as old as some children in nurseries, either.”