"And did you? Was that since _the_ evening?" "It was the day before yesterday. He was going to play somewhere. But, Carl, we shall not hear him play again." "What do you mean?" "I mean not until next year. He is going to travel." "To travel--going away--where--who with?" I was stupid. "He told us all so the other day,--just before you returned, Carl. He went through all the class-rooms to bid farewell. I was in the second singing-room with Spoda and two or three others. He spoke to Spoda, 'Have you any commands for Italy,--any part of Italy? I am going unexpectedly, or we would have had a concert first; but now we must wait until May for our concert.' Spoda behaved very well and exhibited no surprise, only showered forth his _confetti_ speeches about parting. Then the Chevalier bowed to us who were there and said, 'My heart will be half here, and I shall hope to find Cecilia upon the self-same hill,--not a stone wanting.' And then he sighed; but otherwise he looked exceedingly happy. And who, do you think, is going with him?" "His father, I should imagine." "No; old Aronach, and your little friend,--who, Carl, I suspect, makes a sort of chevalier of you, from what I hear." "Yes; he is very fond of me. But, Maria, what is he going away for? Is he going to be married?" She smiled with her own peculiar expression,--wayward, yet warm. "Oh, dear, no! nothing of the kind, I am sure. I cannot fancy the Chevalier in love even. It seems most absurd." "I do not think that; he is too lovable not to be loved." "And that is just why he never will love--to marry, I mean--until he has tried everything else and pleased himself in every manner." "Maria, how do you know? And do you think he will marry one day?" "Carl, I believe there is not anything he will not do; and yet he will be happy, very happy,--only not as he expects. I am certain the Chevalier thinks he should find as much in love as in music,--for himself, I mean. Now, I believe it would be nothing to him in comparison." I could scarcely contain myself, I so sincerely felt that she was mistaken. But I seriously resolved to humor her, lest I should say too much, or she should say too little. "Oh, of course! But I don't think he would _expect_ to find more in love, because he knows how he is loved." "Not _how_, Carl, only how much." "But, Maria, I fancy he wants as much love as music; and that is plenty." "But, Carl, he makes the music, and we love him in it, just as we love God in His works; and I cannot conceive of any love being acceptable to him when it infringed his right as supreme." "You mean that he is proud." "So proud that if love came to him without music, I don't think he would take any notice of it." I felt as surely as she did, sure of that singular pride, but also that it was not a fallen pride, and that she could read it not.