“But where have you learned all these things?” she said to him, talking to him as if he were a mere child, and looking without fear into his handsome boyish face and fine eyes.  “Sit down and tell me.  That is the song of some one whose sweetheart is far away, you said.  But you sang it as if you yourself had some sweetheart far away.”

“So I have, madame,” he said, seriously:  “when I sing the song, I think of her then, so that I almost cry for her.”

“And who is she?” said Sheila gently.  “Is she very far away?”

“I do not know,” said the lad absently.  “I do not know who she is.  Sometimes I think she is a beautiful woman away at St. Petersburg, singing in the opera-house there.  Or I think she has sailed away in a ship from me.”

“But you do not sing about any particular person?” said Sheila, with an innocent wonder appearing in her eyes.

“Oh no, not at all,” said the boy; and then he added, with some suddenness, “Do you think, madame, any fine songs like that, or any fine words that go to the heart of people, are written about any one person?  Oh no!  The man has a great desire in him to say something beautiful or sad, and he says it—­not to one person, but to all the world; and all the world takes it from him as a gift.  Sometimes, yes, he will think of one woman, or he will dedicate the music to her, or he will compose it for her wedding, but the feeling in his heart is greater than any that he has for her.  Can you believe, madame, that Mendelssohn wrote the Hochzeitm—­the Wedding March—­for any one wedding?  No.  It was all the marriage joy of all the world he put into his music, and every one knows that.  And you hear it at this wedding, at that wedding, but you know it belongs to something far away and more beautiful than the marriage of any one bride with her sweetheart.  And if you will pardon me, madame, for speaking about myself, it is about some one I I never knew, who is far more beautiful and precious to me than any one I ever knew, that I try to think when I sing these sad songs, and then I think of her far away, and not likely ever to see me again.”

“But some day you will find that you have met her in real life,” Sheila said.  “And you will find her far more beautiful and kind to you than anything you dreamed about; and you will try to write your best music to give to her.  And then, if you should be unhappy, you will find how much worse is the real unhappiness about one you love than the sentiment of a song you can lay aside at any moment.”

The lad looked at her.  “What can you know about unhappiness, madame?” he said with a frank and gentle simplicity that she liked.

“I?” said Sheila.  “When people get married and begin to experience the cares of the world, they must expect to be unhappy sometimes.”

“But not you,” he said with some touch of protest in his voice, as if it were impossible the world should deal harshly with so young and beautiful and tender a creature.  “You can have nothing but enjoyment around you.  Every one must try to please you.  You need only condescend to speak to people, and they are grateful to you for a great favor.  Perhaps, madame, you think I am impertinent?”