Nino stood with his hat off until she returned and gave him a cake.
“You play such pretty tunes! and I know you now; for I’ve seen you twice,” she said, folding her hands, and looking at him.
Nino murmured,—
“Thankee, pretty lady,” and looked at her as if she was a being from another world.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Nino.”
“Come, darling; don’t stand out there,” called her mother from the house.
“My name’s Viola. Good by,” she cried, as she ran in.
Nino sang one more song, and then kissing his hand to the little form at the window, went on his way happy. The money brought him a night’s lodging and permission to leave his guitar. In the morning—for the following day was Sunday, and if he carried it with him, the police might arrest him for trying to play—he made a light breakfast on a roll, and went to the street where Viola lived, to see if he could meet her. As the bells were ringing, she came down the steps with her parents, and Nino followed at a respectful distance, until they went into church. Nino attempted to go in also; but the sombre sexton at the door frightened him with a severe look, and he wandered on. After a time he came to a mission church, where, by a sign, all were invited to enter. Taking a back seat, and trying to understand the preacher, he fell asleep. When he awoke, the preacher was gone; but the room was full of ragged children, and for the first time Nino found himself in a Sunday school.
The teacher nearest to him was a sweet-faced lady, who spoke gently to the boys of being kind to others, and patient with those who had not the chance to learn that they had; she told them stories, to show them how kindness would return to them, and how happy it made them to have others gentle with them. Nino listened, and thought of Viola; and when all sang some hymns while a lady played the piano, a new life stirred in him.