"Then you believe that what a man fails to do in this life, he will do in another?"
"Always. There is one thing a man never loses—memory. It may leave him for a time; but it always returns. Do you know Italian, signore?"
"No."
"My name is Ricordo. It means remembrance. It is not only a name, it is an expression of an eternal truth. Nothing is forgotten, nothing. Even those whom we call dead remember."
"Ah, you are beyond me," laughed Sprague uneasily. "I am no philosopher. Still, I shall remember what you say about 'willing.' When next we play I shall will to win."
"So shall I."
"What will happen then?"
"Victory for the strongest will."
The two men separated, Sprague with an uneasy feeling in his heart, and Ricordo with a strange smile upon his face.
That evening the concert was held in the village hall, during which Signor Ricordo manifested but little enthusiasm. Indeed, during most of the time he sat with his eyes closed, and once or twice he seemed to suppress a yawn with difficulty, as though he were bored. When Olive sang, however, all was different. He watched her face closely, and listened with almost painful attention. He seemed pleased when the audience applauded, and more than once he uttered a low "bravo"; but there was no marked enthusiasm in his appreciation. Indeed, it was difficult to tell what he thought of her performance as a whole.