“This is the day of the resurrection indeed,” cried Mariuccia frantically from the kitchen.  And she hurried to the door.  But I cannot describe to you the screams of joy and the strange sounds, between laughing and crying, that her leathern throat produced when she found Nino and Hedwig on the landing, waiting for admission.  And when Nino explained that he had been married, and that this beautiful lady with the bright eyes and the golden hair was his wife, the old woman fairly gave way, and sat upon a chair in an agony of amazement and admiration.  But the pair came toward me, and I met them with a light heart.

“Nino,” said Hedwig, “we have not been nearly grateful enough to Signor Grandi for all he has done.  I have been very selfish,” she said, penitently turning to me.

“Ah no, signora,” I replied,—­for she was married now, and no longer “signorina,”—­“it is never selfish of such as you to let an old man do you service.  You have made me very happy.”  And then I embraced Nino, and Hedwig gave me her hand, which I kissed in the old fashion.

“And so this is your old home, Nino?” said Hedwig presently, looking about her, and touching the things in the room, as a woman will when she makes acquaintance with a place she has often heard of.  “What a dear room it is!  I wish we could live here!” How very soon a woman learns that “we” that means so much!  It is never forgotten, even when the love that bred it is dead and cold.

“Yes,” I said, for Nino seemed so enraptured, as he watched her, that he could not speak.  “And there is the old piano, with the end on the boxes because it has no leg, as I dare say Nino has often told you.”

“Nino said it was a very good piano,” said she.

“And indeed it is,” he said, with enthusiasm.  “It is out of tune now, perhaps, but it is the source of all my fortune.”  He leaned over the crazy instrument and seemed to caress it.

“Poor old thing!” said Hedwig, compassionately.  “I am sure there is music in it still—­the sweet music of the past.”

“Yes,” said he laughing, “it must be the music of the past, for it would not stand the ‘music of the future,’ as they call it, for five minutes.  All the strings would break.”  Hedwig sat down on the chair that was in front of it, and her fingers went involuntarily to the keys, though she is no great musician.

“I can play a little, you know, Nino,” she said shyly, and looked up to his face for a response, not venturing to strike the chords.  And it would have done you good to see how brightly Nino smiled and encouraged her little offer of music—­he, the great artist, in whose life music was both sword and sceptre.  But he knew that she had greatness also of a different kind, and he loved the small jewels in his crown as well as the glorious treasures of its larger wealth.

“Play to me, my love,” he said, not caring now whether I heard the sweet words or not.  She blushed a little, nevertheless, and glanced at me; then her fingers strayed over the keys, and drew out music that was very soft and yet very gay.  Suddenly she ceased, and leaned forward on the desk of the piano, looking at him.