Samuel walked back in a daze. It gave him a new sense of the world's lack of interest in him. Probably the great man had forgotten him altogether.
There was nothing to do but to wait; and meantime he had only sixty cents. He could not stay with Mrs. Stedman, that was certain. But when he came to tell her, she recurred to a suggestion he had made. There were a few square yards of ground behind her house, given up mostly to tomato cans. If he would plant some garden seed for her she would board him meanwhile. And so Samuel went to work vigorously with a borrowed spade.
Two days passed, and another day, and still the professor had not returned. It was Saturday evening and Samuel was seated upon the steps of the house, resting after a hard day's work. Sophie was seated near him, leaning back against the house with her eyes closed. The evening was warm and beautiful, and gradually the peace of it stole over her. And so at last she revealed herself to Samuel.
“Do you like music?” she asked.
“Very much indeed,” said he.
“Not everybody does,” she remarked—“I mean real music, such as Friedrich plays.”
“I don't know,” said Samuel. “Who is Friedrich?”
“He's a friend of mine,” Sophie answered. “He's a German boy. His father's the designer at the carpet works. And he plays the violin.”
“I should like to hear him,” said he.
“I'll take you,” she volunteered. “I generally go to see them on Sunday afternoons. It's the only time I have.”