Heart and Science | Page 9

a grand house of his own.
Hundreds of sick people go there to be cured, and give hundreds of
golden guineas." Hundreds of golden guineas gained by only curing
sick people, represented to Teresa's mind something in the nature of a
miracle: she solemnly raised her eyes to heaven. "What a cousin to
have! Is he young? is he handsome? is he married?"
Instead of answering these questions, Carmina looked over her
shoulder. "Is this poor creature following us?" she asked.
They had now turned to the right, and had entered a busy street leading
directly to Covent Garden. The "creature" (who was undoubtedly
following them) was one of the starved and vagabond dogs of London.
Every now and then, the sympathies of their race lead these inveterate
wanderers to attach themselves, for the time, to some human
companion, whom their mysterious insight chooses from the crowd.
Teresa, with the hard feeling towards animals which is one of the
serious defects of the Italian character, cried, "Ah, the mangy beast!"
and lifted her umbrella. The dog starred back, waited a moment, and
followed them again as they went on.
Carmina's gentle heart gave its pity to this lost and hungry
fellow-creature. "I must buy that poor dog something to eat," she
said--and stopped suddenly as the idea struck her.
The dog, accustomed to kicks and curses, was ignorant of kindness.
Following close behind her, when she checked herself, he darted away
in terror into the road. A cab was driven by rapidly at the same moment.
The wheel passed over the dog's neck. And there was an end, as a man
remarked looking on, of the troubles of a cur.

This common accident struck the girl's sensitive nature with horror.
Helpless and speechless, she trembled piteously. The nearest open door
was the door of a music-seller's shop. Teresa led her in, and asked for a
chair and a glass of water. The proprietor, feeling the interest in
Carmina which she seldom failed to inspire among strangers, went the
length of offering her a glass of wine. Preferring water, she soon
recovered herself sufficiently to be able to leave her chair.
"May I change my mind about going to the museum?" she said to her
companion. "After what has happened, I hardly feel equal to looking at
curiosities."
Teresa's ready sympathy tried to find some acceptable alternative.
"Music would be better, wouldn't it?" she suggested.
The so-called Italian Opera was open that night, and the printed
announcement of the performance was in the shop. They both looked at
it. Fortune was still against them. A German opera appeared on the bill.
Carmina turned to the music-seller in despair. "Is there no music, sir,
but German music to be heard in London?" she asked. The hospitable
shopkeeper produced a concert programmed for that afternoon--the
modest enterprise of an obscure piano-forte teacher, who could only
venture to address pupils, patrons, and friends. What did he promise?
Among other things, music from "Lucia," music from "Norma," music
from "Ernani." Teresa made another approving mark with her
thumb-nail; and Carmina purchased tickets.
The music-seller hurried to the door to stop the first empty cab that
might pass. Carmina showed a deplorable ignorance of the law of
chances. She shrank from the bare idea of getting into a cab. "We may
run over some other poor creature," she said. "If it isn't a dog, it may be
a child next time." Teresa and the music-seller suggested a more
reasonable view as gravely as they could. Carmina humbly submitted
to the claims of common sense--without yielding, for all that. "I know
I'm wrong," she confessed. "Don't spoil my pleasure; I can't do it!"
The strange parallel was now complete. Bound for the same destination,
Carmina and Ovid had failed to reach it alike. And Carmina had

stopped to look at the garden of the British Museum, before she
overtook Ovid in the quiet square.
CHAPTER IV.
If, on entering the hall, Ovid had noticed the placards, he would have
found himself confronted by a coincidence. The person who gave the
concert was also the person who taught music to his half-sisters. Not
many days since, he had himself assisted the enterprise, by taking a
ticket at his mother's request. Seeing nothing, remembering
nothing--hurried by the fear of losing sight of the two strangers if there
was a large audience--he impatiently paid for another ticket, at the
doors.
The room was little more than half full, and so insufficiently ventilated
that the atmosphere was oppressive even under those circumstances. He
easily discovered the two central chairs, in the midway row of seats,
which she and her companion had chosen. There was a vacant chair
(among many others) at one extremity of the row in front of them. He
took that