ing that took place in a space cleared of tables. Not far from
us rose an old gentleman who might have been profitably employed in
reading Victor Hugo's "Art of being a Grandfather," who danced with a
pretty young girl who looked at him, mischievously. From the depth of my
virtue I somewhat frowned upon him, until he returned to the table where
a white-haired old lady and a young man were still sitting. The girl put
her hand on the old lady's arm, and I heard her say something to the
effect that Daddy was growing younger every day, so that I felt properly
contrite.

There may be much folly in all this dancing, in the spending of many
hours that might be employed in more useful pursuits, but, after all,
our hearts are in great part such as we make them. The wicked will
always find no lack of opportunity for the flaunting of evil ways, and
the good will never be any the worse for anything that cheers them, that
lightens drearier bits of life, that may bring smiles to lips trained to
the speaking of truth and kindness.

After this little feast of ours, some more weeks went by, marked by the
parading in the streets of a few old men engaged in selling
pussy-willows, after which the shops displayed the first lilacs which
presently grew so abundant that they were peddled on every
street-corner, wherefore I knew that the Spring was fairly established
and swiftly turning into summer. Frances was going to Richetti's,
regularly, and practising every evening, with the assistance of my
piano. To me her scales and exercises sounded more entrancing than any
diva's rendering of masterpieces, I think. It was all in the voice, in
the wonderful clear notes which, like some wonderful bloom come out of a
homely bulb, had so quickly sprung from the poor little husky tones I
remembered so well. Even then there had been charm and sweetness in
them, but, now, her song added greater glory to Frances and seemed to be
taking her farther away from me, to make her more intangible.

I met Richetti in the street, the other day, and he grasped my arm,
enthusiastically.

"But a few more weeks of lessons," he told me, beamingly. "After that
the _cara signora_ Francesca will work by herself for a few months, when
I go to Newport. By September I return and we begin again. Ah! Signore
Cole, we give again to the world a great voice, a ripe full-throated
organ, with flexibility, with a timbre _magnifico_! She makes progress
so quick I cease not to marvel.