aces away. After they had alighted, Mozart, as usual, left to
his wife the arrangements for dinner, and ordered for himself a glass of
wine, while she asked only for water and a quiet room where she could
get a little sleep. The host led the way upstairs, and Mozart, now
singing, now whistling, brought up the rear. The room was newly
whitewashed, clean, and fresh. The ancient articles of furniture were of
noble descent; they had probably once adorned the dwelling of the Count.
The clean white bed was covered with a painted canopy, resting upon
slender green posts, whose silken curtains were long ago replaced by a
more ordinary stuff. Constanze prepared for her nap, Mozart promising to
wake her in time for dinner. She bolted the door behind him, and he
descended to seek entertainment in the coffee-room. Here, however, no
one but the host was to be seen, and, since his conversation suited
Mozart no better than his wine, the master proposed a walk to the palace
garden while dinner was preparing. Respectable strangers, he was told,
were allowed to enter the grounds; besides, the family were away for the
day.

A short walk brought him to the gate, which stood open; then he slowly
followed a path overhung by tall old linden-trees, till he suddenly came
upon the palace which stood a little to the left. It was a light,
plaster building, in the Italian style, with a broad, double flight of
steps in front; the slate-covered roof was finished in the usual manner,
with a balustrade, and was adorned with statues of gods and goddesses.

Our master turned toward the shrubbery, and, passing many flower-beds
still gay with blossoms, took his leisurely way through a dark grove of
pines until he came to an open space where a fountain was playing. The
rather large oval basin was surrounded with carefully kept orange-trees,
interspersed with laurels and oleanders; a smooth gravel
walk upon which an arbor opened ran around the fountain. It was a most
tempting resting-place, and Mozart threw himself down upon the rustic
bench which stood by a table within the arbor.

Listening to the splash of the water, and watching an orange-tree which
stood, heavy with fruit, apart from the rest, our friend was carried
away by visions of the South and favorite memories of his childhood.
Smiling thoughtfully, he reached toward the nearest orange, as if to
take the tempting fruit in his hand. But closely connected with that
scene of his youth there flashed