"And if I said, Yes, I daresay you would not believe me either. Dear little Carl,--for I must call you little, you are so much less than I,--do you really think I would marry, loving music as I do, unless I really loved that which I was to marry more than music?" So thrilling were her tones in these simple words, of such intensity her deep glance, with its fringe all quivering now, that I was alienated at once from her,--the child from the woman; yet could like a child have wept too, when she bent her head and sobbed. "Could anything be more beautiful?" I thought; and now, in pausing, my very memory sobs, heavy laden with pathetic passion. For it was not exactly sorrow, albeit a very woful bliss. She covered her eyes and gave way a moment; then sweeping off the tears with one hand, she broke into a smile. The shower ceased amidst the sunlight, but still the sunlight served to fling a more peculiar meaning upon the rain-drops,--an iris lustre beamed around her eyes. I can but recall that ineffable expression, the April playing over the oriental mould. "I might have known you would have spoken so, Fräulein Cerinthia," I responded, at last roused to preternatural comprehension by her words; "but so few people think in that way about those things." "You are right, and agree with me, or at least you will one day. But for that, all would be music here; we should have it all _our own way_." "You and the Chevalier. Do you know I had forgotten all about your music till this very minute?" "I am very happy to hear that, because it shows we are to be friends." "We have the best authority to be so," I replied; "and it only seems too good to be true. I am really, though, mad to hear you sing. Delemann says there never was in Europe a voice like yours, and that its only fault is it is so heavenly that it makes one discontented." "That is one of the divinest mistakes ever made, Carlino." "The Chevalier calls me Carlomein. I like you to say 'Carlino,' it is so coaxing." "You have served me with another of your high authorities, Maestrino. The Chevalier says I have scarcely a voice at all; it is the way I sing he likes." "I did not think it possible. And yet, now I come to consider, I don't think you look so much like a singer as another sort of musician." She smiled a little, and looked into her lap, but did not reply. It struck me that she was too intuitively modest to talk about herself. But I could not help endeavoring to extort some comment, and I went on. "I think you look too much like a composer to be a singer also." "Perhaps," she whispered. I took courage. "Don't you mean to be a composer, Fräulein Cerinthia?" "Carlino, yes. The Chevalier says that to act well is to compose."