Listening to the splash of the water, and watching an orange-tree which stood, heavy with fruit, apart from the rest, our friend was carried away by visions of the South and favorite memories of his childhood.  Smiling thoughtfully, he reached toward the nearest orange, as if to take the tempting fruit in his hand.  But closely connected with that scene of his youth there flashed upon him a long-forgotten, half-effaced, musical memory, which he pondered long and tried to follow out.  Then his glance brightened, and darted here and there; an idea had come to him, and he worked it out eagerly.  Absently he grasped the orange again—­it broke from the tree and remained in his hand.  He looked at it, but did not see it; indeed, his artistic abstraction went so far that, after rolling the fragrant fruit back and forth before his nose, while his lips moved silently with the melody which was singing itself to him, he presently took from his pocket an enameled case, and with a small silver-handled knife slowly cut open the fruit.  Perhaps he had a vague sense of thirst, but, if so, the fragrance of the open fruit allayed it.  He looked long at the inner surfaces, then fitted them gently together, opened them again, and again put them together.

Just then steps approached the arbor.  Mozart started, suddenly remembering where he was and what he had done.  He was about to hide the orange, but stopped, either from pride or because he was too late.  A tall, broad-shouldered man in livery, the head-gardener, stood before him.  He had evidently seen the last guilty movement, and stopped, amazed.  Mozart, likewise, was too much surprised to speak, and, sitting as if nailed to his chair, half laughing yet blushing, looked the gardener somewhat boldly in the face with his big, blue eyes.  Then—­it would have been most amusing for a third person—­with a sort of defiant courage he set the apparently uninjured orange in the middle of the table.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” began the gardener rather angrily, as he looked at Mozart’s unprepossessing clothing, “I do not know whom I have the honor—­”

“Kapellmeister Mozart, of Vienna.”

“You are acquainted in the palace, I presume.”

“I am a stranger, merely passing through the village.  Is the Count at home?”

“No.”

“His wife?”

“She is engaged and would hardly see you.”  Mozart rose, as if he would go.

“With your permission, sir, how do you happen to be pilfering here?”

“What!” cried Mozart.  “Pilfering!  The devil!  Do you believe, then, that I meant to steal and eat that thing?”

“I believe what I see, sir.  Those oranges are counted, and I am responsible for them.  That tree was just to be carried to the house for an entertainment.  I cannot let you go until I have reported the matter and you yourself have told how it happened.”

“Very well.  Be assured that I will wait here.”  The gardener hesitated, and Mozart, thinking that perhaps he expected a fee, felt in his pocket; but he found nothing.