Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. He called it "The Man Who Could Not Go Home. "Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. That’s the wonder of it. "Your son," answered the boy. "Thank you; but I've a pocket full of water-chestnuts.
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