“Begin,” said Gianetta, “and tell me when I play wrongly.”
But for such a mere child, Gianetta played with marvellous correctness. As for Nicolo, his countenance cleared with every sound that he drew from his beloved violin; he forgot his gloomy father; he thought no longer of his dull, sad home. He was wrapped in that wonderful content which the possession of some great talent gives.
With the last chord the brightness faded, however, out of his face.
“Take me home now,” said the little girl.
Home was only across the street; but Gianetta wanted another word in private with her friend.
“Nicolo,” she said, gravely, “never speak more of giving up the music; it is not to be. I am sorry for you, my poor boy; I know it is a hard life, but—”
“But I will make a name for myself at last,” said Nicolo, catching her enthusiasm; “and then, perhaps, my father will have faith in me. Till then I will be brave, little one; so good night.”
It was a hard life for Nicolo—his mother dead, his father with no care for his son’s one great passion—music. Many a time the boy’s spirit failed, and he even grew to doubt his own powers under the cold glance and cruel taunts which daily met him.
He was sitting one day, feeling even sadder than usual,—discontented even with the sounds he drew from his instrument,—when Gianetta’s mother stood in the doorway.
“The child is ill,” she said, hurriedly—“very ill, and calls ever for you. Come.”