I found him at night asleep over the old piano, his eyes all wet with tears.
"What is the matter, Nino ?" I asked.

"It is time for youngsters like you to be in bed." "Ah, Messer Cornelio," he said, when he was awake, "I had better go to bed, as you say.

I shall never sing again, for my voice is all broken to pieces"; and he sobbed bitterly.
"The saints be praised," thought I; "I shall make a philosopher of you yet!" But he would not be comforted, and for several months he went about as if he were trying to find the moon, as we say; and though he read his books and made progress, he was always sad and wretched, and grew much thinner, so that Mariuccia said he was consuming himself, and I thought he must be in love.

But the house was very quiet.
I thought as he did, that he would never sing again, but I never talked to him about it, lest he should try, now that he was as quiet as a nightingale with its tongue cut out.

But nature meant differently, I suppose.