host sat on in the empty hall, fondly telling the guest
of his bygone Paris, and fondly learning of the Paris that was to-day.
And thus the two lingered, exchanging their fervors, while the candles
waned, and the long-haired Indians stood silent behind the chairs.

"But we must go to my piano," the host exclaimed. For at length they had
come to a lusty difference of opinion. The padre, with ears critically
deaf, and with smiling, unconvinced eyes, was shaking his head, while
young Gaston sang "Trovatore" at him, and beat upon the table with a
fork.

"Come and convert me, then," said Padre Ignazio, and he led the way.
"Donizetti I have always admitted. There, at least, is refinement.
If the world has taken to this Verdi, with his street-band music--But
there, now! Sit down and convert me. Only don't crush my poor little
Erard with Verdi's hoofs. I brought it when I came. It is behind the
times too. And, oh, my dear boy, our organ is still worse. So old, so
old! To get a proper one I would sacrifice even this piano of mine in a
moment--only the tinkling thing is not worth a sou to anybody except its
master. But there! Are you quite comfortable?" And having seen to his
guest's needs, and placed spirits and cigars and an ash-tray within his
reach, the padre sat himself luxuriously in his chair to hear and expose
the false doctrine of "Il Trovatore."

By midnight all of the opera that Gaston could recall had been played
and sung twice. The convert sat in his chair no longer, but stood
singing by the piano. The potent swing and flow of tunes, the torrid,
copious inspiration of the South, mastered him. "Verdi has grown," he
cried. "Verdi has become a giant." And he swayed to the beat of the
melodies, and waved an enthusiastic arm. He demanded every crumb. Why
did not Gaston remember it all? But if the barkentine would arrive and
bring the whole music, then they would have it right! And he made Gaston
teach him what words he knew."'Non ti scordar,"' he sang--"'non ti
scordar di me.' That is genius. But one sees how the world; moves when
one is out of it. 'A nostri monti ritorneremo'; home to our mountains.
Ah, yes, there is genius again." And the exile sighed and his spirit
went to distant places, while Gaston continued brilliantly with the
music of the final scene.

Then the host remembered his guest. "I am ashamed of my selfishness," he
said. "It is already to-morrow."

"I have sat later in less good company," answered