I can thank him for.  He made me know the music of the great German.  I used to listen:  I could not believe such music could come from a German.  He followed me about, telling me I was his slave.  For some time I could not sleep.  I laughed at myself for composing.  He was not an Austrian:  but when he was alive he lived in Vienna, the capital of Austria.  He ate Austrian bread, and why God gave him such a soul of music I never can think!—­Well, by-and-by my father wanted to know what I did in the day, and why they never had anything but potatoes for dinner.  My mother came to me, and I told her to say, I took walks.  My father said I was an idle girl, and like my mother—­who was a slave to work.  People are often unjust!  So my father said he would watch me.  I had to cross the park to give a lesson to a lady who had a husband, and she wanted to sing to him to keep him at home in the evening.  I used to pray he might not have much ear for music.  One day a gentleman came behind me in the park.  He showed me a handkerchief, and asked me if it was mine.  I felt for my own and found it in my pocket.  He was certain I had dropped it.  He looked in the corners for the name, I told him my name—­Emilia Alessandra Belloni.  He found A.F.G. there.  It was a beautiful cambric handkerchief, white and smooth.  I told him it must be a gentleman’s, as it was so large; but he said he had picked it up close by me, and he could not take it, and I must; and I was obliged to keep it, though I would much rather not.  Near the end of the park he left me.”

At this point Wilfrid roused up.  “You met him the next day near the same place?” he remarked.

She turned to him with astonishment on her features.  “How did you know that?  How could you know?”

“Sort of thing that generally happens,” said Wilfrid.

“Yes; he was there,” Emilia slowly pursued, controlling her inclination to question further.  “He had forgotten about the handkerchief, for when I saw him, I fancied he might have found the owner.  We talked together.  He told me he was in the Army, and I spoke of my father’s playing and my singing.  He was so fond of music that I promised him he should hear us both.  He used to examine my hand, and said they were sensitive fingers for playing.  I knew that.  He had great hopes of me.  He said he would give me a box at the Opera, now and then.  I was mad with joy; and so delighted to have made a friend.  I had never before made a rich friend.  I sang to him in the park.  His eyes looked beautiful with pleasure.  I know I enchanted him.”

“How old were you then?” inquired Wilfrid.

“Sixteen.  I can sing better now, I know; but I had voice then, and he felt that I had.  I forgot where we were, till people stood round us, and he hurried me away from them, and said I must sing to him in some quiet place.  I promised to, and he promised he would have dinner for me at Richmond Hill, in the country, and he would bring friends to hear me.”