t Nicolo shook his head, though he smiled at his little friend.

"What is it?" asked Gianetta. "Why can't you come? Is it the father
again?"

Nicolo sighed. He was a cheerful, happy-tempered boy by nature. And
yet Gianetta often found him looking very sad.

"Tiresome, bad man!" broke forth the little girl. "He has been
scolding you again; but no. Stop; I will say no wicked things of him,
for he is your father; and we must honor our parents, be they bad or
good, Father Clement says. But tell me, Nicolo, what has he said or
done?"

"It is nothing," said Nicolo, rousing himself at length--"nothing, my
little Gianetta; but it wearies me. It is the old tale; he likes not
my music--thinks it an excuse for idleness. Listen, little one. I make
my plans now. I cannot bear this life. I must do as he wishes--learn a
trade or somewhat, and give up my violin."

"That you never shall do," said Gianetta, earnestly. "You think me
naughty, Nicolo; but I am not. I only see it plainer than you or your
father. God has given you this talent,--this great one,--and you shall
not hide it, you shall not bury it." The little girl's face was so
eager, that Nicolo smiled at her.

But she went on, more excitedly:--

"Get up this moment, Nicolo, and come in with me. We will play
somewhat together. Your father never scolds you when I am by. And you
shall not give up your music."

The boy, half in earnest, and half amused, let the child drag him into
a little house near, put his violin into his arms, and then seat
herself at the piano, while in the distance sat Nicolo's father,
gloomily watching the pair.

"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 t