and half shrinking back she hid her face upon
her hands.

"Angry, my child! " was all the Master
said, but the tone thrilled to Berthalde's heart;
and, as he laid his hand upon her head again,
she felt such a wild rush of gratitude towards
him that she could have fallen down and
kissed his feet.

She told him all that was in her heart,
all her sorrows and her hopes, pouring everything
out to him amidst her tears, forgetting
all her former fear of him in the kind
sympathy with which he listened to her. And
when it all was spoken, and, half sobbing, still
she stood beside him, he took her hand in his,
and gently said,

"Wait for me here to-morrow. You are
too agitated now to let me hear your voice;
but to-morrow you shall come with me to the
choir. And this at least I promise you now,
my child, that you shall have free leave to
join the rest of the singers when we meet
together. Now dry your eyes, and come
with me; but are you able to walk? We
have forgotten all about your fall."

"So have I, sir," she answered simply. " I
can feel nothing now but joy."

"Give me your hand, then."

And they walked together to the door, and
there parted.

On the following day, when mass was over,
the Kapell-rneister came to seek Berthalde; and,
speaking to her cheerfully and kindly, led her,
trembling half with joy and half with fear,
up to the organ loft. The singers were all
gone save Margaret; she, by the Master's
request, had remained behind, and to her he
spoke, as with Berthalde he entered the
choir.

"This is my little friend, Margaret, of whom
I told you. I give her into your charge to
teach her the way here; she will not be long
in learning it, and you will take good care of
her, I know, until she does."

And while he spoke, Berthalde felt her hand
taken in another soft warm hand, and a few
gentle words were whispered into her ear.
And then the two girls stood together, hand
in hand; and when, without another word the
Master took his seat before the organ, a long
low note pealed through the church.

"Come here, Berthalde."

She came, guided by Margaret, and stood
beside him.

"Listen to what Margaret sings."

In her clear sweet voice Margaret sang a
simple exercise.

"Now, my child."

Berthalde's first notes were low, feeble and
broken; for every nerve within her trembled.

"Join with her, Margaret! " And, shielded
by Margaret's firm strong tones, Berthalde's
voicd gained strength; her fear began to pass
away; a strange, deep joy filled her heart;
and her voice arose more clear, more full,
more rich, with every phrase; mingling
with the deep, grand tones of the swelling
organ; and, with it, awakening the echoes of
the dark old church.

The music died away under the Kapell-
meister's hand, and he turned to her.

"My child, you did well to speak to nie,"
was all he said.

Margaret bending down, whispered, " Have
courage, dear," and for a moment her lips
rested on Berthalde's brow.

"Listen, Berthalde! do you know this?"
and the Master played again.

It was the Agnus Dei. She sang it alone;
beginning with much fear, and in an unsteady
voice; yet as she grew absorbed, again
forgetting everything in the intense delight of
singing, of hearing her own voice mingling
with the deep music of the organ, as hundreds
of times with vague longing she had
listened before to other voices; and, imperfect
as her self-taught singing was—the earnest
fervour with which she sang, and the purity
and sweetness of her voice, made it really
beautiful.

When she had done, and there was utter
silence, her life seemed to hang upon the next
words the Kapell-meister would speak. It
seemed an age before he closed the manual of
the instrument, and rose from his seat
preparatory to departing. But presently, laying
his hand upon her shoulder, he said,

"Berthalde, I accept you as my pupil. You
were born to be a singer."

"Master! " she cried; and choking with
joy fell down at his feet.

When she returned home that day it was
late, and the short, winter's day had closed,
and she had been some time expected.

"Why, Bertie, where have you been so
long? " the mother asked as she came in,
and the father rose in silence to meet her;
and a faint smile spread over his face as his
eyes rested on the little figure that was so
dear to him. Karl Reimer was much changed
of late—broken down in health and spirits—
growing every day more hopeless for the
future. And not without cause, for his work
daily became more painful to him.

"I've only been in the church, mother,"
Berthalde answered; but there was something
in her voice that attracted the attention of
them both.

Karl took her on his knees.

"What have you been doing at the church,
my darling?"

She hesitated for a moment.

"Oh, father, I 'm so happy! The Master
says that in a few months I shall be a singer
in the choir, and that I shall earn money
then to help you; and oh, father, I shall
never be a burden to you any more!"

"My child! " was all Karl could say,
passionately clasping her to his breast. Two
large tears silently fell upon his cheek as he
bent his head down over her.

Four years passed; and, on a bright clear
summer's morning in the old town there