her going to it alone, or feared that she should
miss her way. Nor was it likely, for she had
gone daily there for many years, and no accident
of any kind had ever happened to her;
but on this day, as she was sorrowfully making
her way home, less careful perhaps than usual
to keep out of the way of passers-by, almost
at the church door she tripped over
something that lay across the path, and fell down
heavily. But almost in the instant that she
fell, a voice close to her broke upon her ear
—a voice that as if by magic made her forget
the pain that she was suffering, for it was
the long watched for voice of the Kapell-
meister.

"My child, take care! Why, where could
you be looking? " he exclaimed, and before
she could speak he had raised her from the
ground, and was half supporting her with
his arm.

"Looking wouldn't have done her much
good, poor thing," said a good-natured man
coming out of his shop close by. "Do you
know her? She is the little blind girl,
Berthalde Reimer."

"Why, my child, you have really hurt
yourself, your hand is bleeding, let's wrap my
handkerchief round it;" and, while Berthalde
stood trembling by him, he gently bound up
her injured hand, talking to her kindly while
he did it.

"I think, sir, she's a little faint—the poor
thing looks so pale," the shopman said. " Let
her come into my shop and rest herself before
she goes home."

"No, no, no! " Berthalde broke in. " I
would rather go into the church again. I
wanted to speak. I wanted, if he would be
so kind, I mean,—oh, sir, I think I can
walk! " she suddenly exclaimed; but, not
heeding her remonstrance, the Kapell-meister
lifted her up in his arms, for she was very
little, and carried her within the church
again, and laid her down upon a bench.

"Oh. sir, you are very good," she whispered,
her voice quite shaking now with agitation,
and nervously and half unconsciously raising
herself up from the position in which he
had placed her. " And, if you please, sir—
if you wouldn't go away for a minute or two—
if you would just let me say something to you
that I've wanted so much to say, and not be
offended—not, I mean—not think—" and then
her imperfect sentence came abruptly to an
end.

"You have something to say to me? " the
Kapell-meister asked. " My child, how do
you know who I am?"

She said quickly, " I heard you speak, one
day. You are the Kapell-meister."

"You are right. But what can you have
to say to me?"

He paused a moment, but there was no
answer; and then, looking at her, in a gentle,
pitying tone he added,

"My child, you are frightened. Wait then
a minute before you speak. Now, what is it?
Tell me frankly. Is it anything I can do for
you?"

"Oh, yes! " she cried eagerly, though
almost below her breath, " You can do
more for me than anybody in the world!
Oh, sir, I have been waiting here every day
to see you, that I might be able to tell you
what I want, and yet now I am afraid to
say it."

"My poor girl, if it be in my power to do
what you want, I will do it," the Master said.
"Tell me now what it is."

With drooped eyes, and hands pressed
together, she said simply, in a very low
voice,

"I want to learn to sing in the choir," and
waited calmly, but pale even to her lips, to
receive his answer.

The Kapell-meister shook his head.

"What put this into your mind? Who
told you you could be a singer?"

"No one," she answered faintly.

"You thought it of yourself?"

"I thought it after I had heard you speak,
one day. I never thought it until then; but
I have come here to listen every day for so
many years, and the music has always seemed
so beautiful to me!"

The Kapell-meister laid his hand upon her
head, and said, in a voice so gentle, almost so
tender, that it made the tears spring to her
eyes,

"My child, I think you have forgotten one
obstacle, you have forgotten that you are
blind."

"No, no! " she eagerly exclaimed; " I have
not forgotten it. I know that I can only
learn by remembering what I hear; I know
that you cannot give lessons to me as you
would do to others. I do not ask that you
should trouble yourself with me so much;
I only want to come where I can hear you
teach, then, you would hear me sing, and tell
me when I am wrong, and what to do." And
in anxious inquiry she again looked up into
his face.

"You are very young," he began, after a
little pause.

"I am thirteen, sir," she said, quickly;
"but I am very little," she added humbly.

"Yes—but, your name, tell it me again?"

"Berthalde Reimer."

"Berthalde, would it make you happy if I
gave you your wish?"

The look that sprang into her face answered
him without words.

"Yes, I see it would. 'And is it your love
of music only that makes you wish to be a
singer?"

There was a moment's hesitation; then
the colour mounted to her cheek, and she
whispered,

"No."

"Tell me what other reason you have?"

She wept as she said, " We are so poor at
home, and there is nothing I can do to help
them. Oh, sir, do not be angry with me!"