him. Leaving his chair, he
began enthusiastically to examine the tall piles that filled one side of
the room. The volumes lay richly everywhere, making a pleasant
disorder; and as perfume comes out of a flower, memories of singers and
chandeliers rose bright from the printed names. "Norma," "Tancredi,"
"Don Pasquale," "La Vestale"--dim lights in the fashions of
to-day--sparkled upon the exploring Gaston, conjuring the radiant
halls of Europe before him. "'The Barber of Seville!'" he presently
exclaimed. "And I happened to hear it in Seville."

But Seville's name brought over the padre a new rush of home thoughts.
"Is not Andalusia beautiful?" he said. "Did you see it in April, when
the flowers come?"

"Yes," said Gaston, among the music. "I was at Cordova then."

"Ah, Cordova!" murmured the padre.

"'Semiramide!'" cried Gaston, lighting upon that opera. "That was a
week! I should like to live it over, every day and night of it!"

"Did you reach Malaga from Marseilles or Gibraltar?" said the padre,
wistfully.

"From Marseilles. Down from Paris through the Rhone Valley, you know."

"Then you saw Provence! And did you go, perhaps, from Avignon to Nismes
by the Pont du Gard? There is a place I have made here--a little, little
place--with olive-trees. And now they have grown, and it looks something
like that country, if you stand in a particular position. I will take
you there to-morrow. I think you will understand what I mean."

"Another resemblance!" said the volatile and happy Gaston. "We both seem
to have an eye for them. But, believe me, padre, I could never stay here
planting olives. I should go back and see the original ones--and then
I'd hasten up to Paris." And, with a volume of Meyerbeer open in his
hand, Gaston hummed: "'Robert, Robert, toi que j'aime.' Why, padre,
I think that your library contains none of the masses and all of the
operas in the world!"

"I will make you a little confession," said Padre Ignazio, "and then you
shall give me a little absolution."

"With a penance," said Gaston. "You must play over some of these things
to me."

"I suppose that I could not permit myself this indulgence," began the
padre, pointing to his operas; "and teach these to my choir, if the
people had any worldly associations with the music. But I have reasoned
that the music cannot do them harm--"

The ringing of a bell here interrupted him. "In fifteen minutes," he
said, "our poor meal will be ready for you."