The day was one of rare loveliness. There was not a cloud in the deep blue, crystalline heavens, and the jagged peaks of the neighboring mountains stood out clearly before the eye. The rushing Salza, like a great glistening serpent, wound through meadows, fields, and clumps of trees. The trimly arranged garden beds were rich with blossoms and fragrance. Violets, lilies of the valley, and snowdrops profusely exhaled their sweet perfume. Hyacinths and tulips were arranged in their most gorgeous colors, and the branches of the ornamental shrubs, a short time ago leafless, were decked in delicate mantles of green. It was an exquisite and enjoyable scene. The friends revelled in the mild spring air and admired both the wide, beautiful prospect and the floral beauty near at hand. After setting the table in the little summer-house, Nannie returned home. The wine and viands had been served, and the chairs were pushed back, when Father Mozart heard a knock at the garden door. Little Wolfgang and a family friend entered, and were heartily greeted by all. “A thousand times welcome, dearest Wenzel,” exclaimed the vice chapelmaster, advancing to meet him and shaking both his hands. “This is fortunate, for you have come at a most auspicious time. I am very glad to see you.” While the others were greeting the new-comer, Wolfgang slipped away to one side lest he should be seen and sent home again. He well knew there would be music in the summer-house, because the guests had brought their instruments, and music was the joy of his life. No one paid any attention to him. His father conversed intimately with Herr Wenzel, a clever young violinist who for some time had been taking lessons of him in composition; and the others, even if they had noticed Wolfgang’s presence, would not have had him sent away, for they were very fond of him. Young Wenzel admired the beautiful garden and its charming location, much to the satisfaction of Father Mozart. “Yes, I am very devoted to my little garden,” said he. “I never enjoy myself more in summer than I do here.” “I can well believe it,” replied Wenzel. “How pleasant it must be to stroll here! How delightful the prospect and the flowers! How one could think and dream here! It must be a great satisfaction to work, compose, and meditate in this garden.” “Yes; you have hit it exactly, Herr Wenzel,” said Father Mozart. “Whenever a good idea comes to me it is here in this cosy solitude. But what about your own affairs, my friend? You certainly have not come out here without some good reason for it. I see a roll of paper peeping out of your pocket which looks as if it might contain something nice.”