thought within herself, and her heart beat
with almost a reverential feeling. " How
happy they must be, how very happy! " For
a moment more the tears sprang up into her
eyes, for, suddenly, the girl that stayed behind
began, as she paced up and down, softly to
sing a low, sweet melody. Berthalde remem-
bered it at once: it was the Agnus Dei of the
lately finished mass.

A second time there were steps and voices
coming near—slow steps, unlike the first, and
the singer's voice was hushed as a new voice,
rich, sweet, and low, broke upon Berthalde's
ear.

"What would you have me say, Lisa? I
am weary of complaining. You grow more
careless every day. Your singing now is
worse than it was six months ago."

"Maestro, I do not think it's possible to
please you now," said the girl, half angrily,
half carelessly. " I'm sure I do the best I
can, and I suppose my voice is as good as it
used to be."

"Your voice is the finest in the choir;
but—"

"My dear master, then what is the use of
scolding me? " Lisa exclaimed with real
delight.

"But," he went on quietly, without heeding
her, " you have no love for music—no true
feeling for what you sing—no perseverance
in study."

"Then what is the use of my coming here
any longer? " the girl asked, with suppressed
irritation.

Without answering her, the Master turned
to the other girl.

"Margaret, you did well to-day, very well.
Go on as steadily as you are doing now,
and you will find that your reward will
eome. Only have courage, perseverance, and
patience."

"Courage! " Margaret answered a little
sadly. " Ah, I sometimes want courage.
I sometimes almost lose heart. If I had
but more voice! There is so much that
I can never sing. If I only had Lisa's
voice!"

There was a moment's pause; then the
first girl said, more humbly than she had
spoken yet, " Master, what can I do? I am
sure I want to sing well."

"You want to sing well? " he repeated.
"Why, Lisa?"

"Why! " she answered. " Surely, everybody
thinks it's more pleasant to be admired
than—than to be blamed."

"So you wish to sing well to be admired?
Exactly. I understand you perfectly," he
answered drily. " And you, Margaret, is it
also to be admired that you work so hard, and
study so perseveringly?"

She answered " No," in a low voice,
earnestly and almost humbly. Berthalde felt
that it came from her heart, and in her own
heart the blind girl echoed it.

The Master said abruptly, after a pause,
"It is getting late. I will not detain you any
longer. Good morning," and leaving them he
went away, they following.

When they were gone, a sudden change
had come upon Berthalde. A bright light was
in her sightless eyes. She whispered
tremblingly, almost like one in fear,

"Oh, if there was any way, any hope
—if I knew what to do if—I could speak
to him and tell him—" She paused a
moment, and pressed her face upon her
hands: then bursting into tears, she cried
almost aloud, " Oh, if he would teach me, if
he would let me learn of him, if he would let
me be a singer! " and falling on her knees
again, she broke into a passionate, imploring
prayer, sobbing and trembling as if her very
life depended on its being heard.

For a long time she knelt, not praying
always, but feverishly. Yet with intense
delight and eagerness, building bright castles in
the air, confusing herself with multitudes of
thoughts that poured in on her; bright, happy
thoughts for the most part, though now and
then some sudden fear would come, making
her heart grow sick, lest all that she was
hoping now should never be to her anything
but a dream. Then she prayed again until
the fear began to fade away, and she would
grow bewildered with her happiness once
more. Now that she was so full of it, it
seemed so strange to her that never in all her
sorrow, and with all her passionate love of
music, she should have remembered that it
was possible for her as a singer to gain her
bread, and grow so happy; oh, so happy,
that it scarcely seemed to her that there could
be in all the world anything more that she
could wish for.

Patient, cheerful, full of hope, day after
day found Berthalde at her old place at the
church, waiting, with a firm purpose though
a trembling heart, to hear the Kapell-meister's
step; but day after day too saw her turn
away in disappointment; for in vain she
waited, in vain she strained her ears to catch
a sound of the well-remembered voice, in vain
she listened to each solitary footstep, believing
that she could at once distinguish his from
any other—he never came again. And after
a time she began to fear that there must be a
private entrance to the choir through which
he came and went, and that she might wait
for months here in the chancel and never see
him; and then what to do she knew not, for
she shrank from telling any one her secret,
and she could not hope to find her way alone
to a strange place. And presently, by degrees,
her heart began to sink, her whole project began
to appear to her wild and unattainable, and
at last one day she turned from the church so
weary of hoping in vain, so sad and out of
spirits that she could scarcely keep her tears
from falling as she went away.

The church was near to where she lived,
so near that—blind though she was—neither
her father nor her mother ever objected to