“‘Those people must be helped,’ said the Captain.  ’The tricks of the union do not amount to much.  I know some one who will see to that.  The important thing is a contribution toward the expenses of the house and the furniture.  Let us give a benefit concert, admission fee ad libitum!’

“The suggestion found hearty approval.  Somebody picked up the salt-box and said:  ’We must have an historic introduction, with a description of Herr Mozart’s purchase, and an account of his philanthropic spirit; and we will put this box on the table to receive the contributions and arrange the rakes as decorations.’  This did not happen, however, though the concert came off; and what with the receipts of the concert and outside contributions, the young couple had more than enough for their housekeeping outfit, and also the other obstacles were quickly removed.

“The Duscheks, in Prague, dear friends of ours, with whom we are to stay, heard the story, and Frau Duschek asked for some of the woodenware as souvenirs.  So I laid aside two which I thought were suitable, and was taking them to her.

“But since we have made another artist friend by the way, one who is, too, about to provide her wedding furnishings, and who will not despise what Mozart has chosen, I will divide my gift, and you, Eugenie, may choose between a lovely open-work rod for stirring chocolate and the salt-box, which is decorated with a tasteful tulip.  My advice is to take the salt-box; salt, as I have heard, is a symbol of home and hospitality, and with the gift go the best and most affectionate wishes.”

So ended Madame Mozart’s story.  How pleased and gratified her listeners were is easily to be imagined.  Their delight was redoubled when, in the presence of the whole party, the interesting articles were brought out, and the model of patriarchal simplicity was formally presented.  This, the Count vowed, should have in the silver-chest of its present owner and all her posterity, as important a place as that of the Florentine master’s famous work.

It was, by this time, almost eight o’clock and tea-time, and soon our master was pressingly reminded of his promise to show his friends Don Juan, which lay under lock and key, but, happily, not too deep down in his trunk.  Mozart was ready and willing, and by the time he had told the story of the plot and had brought the libretto, the lights were burning at the piano.

We could wish that our readers could here realize a touch, at least, of that peculiar sensation with which a single chord, floating from a window as we pass, stops us and holds us spellbound—­a touch of that pleasant suspense with which we sit before the curtain in the theatre while the orchestra is still tuning!  Or am I wrong?  Can the soul stand more deeply in awe of everlasting beauty than when pausing before any sublime and tragic work of art—­Macbeth, OEdipus, or whatever it may be?  Man wishes and yet fears to be moved beyond