But the train rolled away and took them all from me,--the ragged little child who first came to me, the strong-limbed, dark-eyed boy with his scales and trills and enthusiasm, and the full-grown man with the face like the great emperor, mightily triumphing in his art and daring in his love.

They were all gone in a moment, and I was left alone on the platform of the station, a very sorrowful and weak old man.

Well, I will not think about that day.
The first I heard of Nino was by a letter he wrote me from Paris, a fortnight after he had left me.

It was characteristic of him, being full of eager questions about home and De Pretis and Mariuccia and Rome.

Two things struck me in his writing.