cheek was tinged with a faint glow of colour
now; she seemed to the Elector wonderfully
beautiful. He gazed at her, and listened in
deep silence. When she ceased to sing he drew
a long deep breath. Then he turned from her
to the Master. .

"Herr Kapell-meister, a visit here is truly
not thrown away. Much as I respected this
good old town, I anticipated no such pleasure
from rny stay in it as this last half hour has
afforded me. But time presses now; we must
not try the patience of our municipal friends
too far.  Herr Kapell-meister, may I request
your further attendance? I would speak to
you privately about some matters; " and,
bowing courteously to all around, the Elector,
followed by the Master and his suite, retired
from the choir.

"Berthalde, remain with me a little while,"
the Kapell-meister said, when on the day
succeeding to the Elector's visit, the mass was
over and the singers were departing.

Standing beside him, she listened, as was
often her delight to do, to a slow movement
that he played, until the rest were gone,
and they two were alone. Then, the Master
closed the organ, and coming to her took her
hand in his. A small, thin, delicate hand
it still was, and she herself too was small,
but no longer now a child, nor looking like one.

"Berthalde," the Kapell-meister said, "I
have news for you. Have you no suspicion
what it is?"

She shook her head.

"Did nothing happen yesterday?"

"Yesterday! " she exclaimed, " you mean
the Elector's visit?"

"I do, and what I have to tell you now is this,
that his Highness has expressed a wish that
you should accept an engagement in the choir
of his court chapel at Dresden."

He watched her face as he spoke, and a
look of almost tender pity beamed from his
dark eyes as he saw the sudden change.
She stood before him pale as death, her
head bowed down, her lips quivering; no
word broke from her. She stood like one
turned into marble, quite still and calm; her
arms had fallen down, and the hands were
clasped. Her attitude was that of one whom
some great sudden grief had crushed.

"My child, what is there in this news so
much to grieve you? I thought that you
would have rejoiced at it."

She was still mute, and he anxiously
implored her to arouse herself.

She did arouse herself, and crushing down
the sorrow within her, tried to speak.

"Master, forgive me; it came so suddenly
—I am quite unprepared," she said, faintly.

"Did I then tell it to you too abruptly?
Sit down and calm yourself a little while.
Why, Berthalde," he said, half laughing, " you
look as frightened as you did that day so long
ago, when for the first time I saw you at the
church door below."

Still she wept.

"Berthalde," he continued, ' you must tell
me what is grieving you. I cannot comfort
you if you will not tell me what your sorrow
is."

Through her tears she tried to answer him;
and though her voice was broken, her tone
was almost passionate in its earnestness, as
she said:

"O sir, I have lived here all my life. All
that I have in the world is here. Do you
think that I can leave it all and feel no grief?
Do you think that I can bear suddenly to be
told that everything I love is to be taken
from me, and never weep? Do you think only
because I am blind, that I can grow so little
attached to anything that all places are the
same to me? O sir, we do not need sight to
love."

"My child, you cannot think that we would
send you forth to a strange place alone."

She looked up with one instant's hope—
his last word trembling on her lips.

"Alone," she echoed.

"Berthalde, will not your father and your
mother both be with you?"

She stooped her head again to stifle a
deep sob. There was a few moments' pause,
then again the Master spoke:

"My child, I know it is no easy thing to
tear ourselves away from things that we have
grown to love; but those who are dearest to you
you take with you, and if there be a sacrifice
to be made, will not the thought that it is
made for their sake, to save them from the
labour that is grown so hard to them, repay
it? It is I indeed who should grieve to lose
you, for I cannot hope, when you are gone,
to lind another who will fill your place."

His last words blotted all the others from
her memory.

"But," she answered, choking with emotion,
"who will fill your place to me? Who
will take pity on the poor blind girl, and
comfort her when she is sorrowful, and be
a friend to her as you have been? Who
will give her more than life? Do you think
that for all that you have been to me I have
no gratitude to you—no love for you?"

"I do not think it, Berthalde. My kind, dear
child, my dear little friend, I know you love
me, and I think you know that you are dearer
to me than a. pupil only. But, alas! my
child, there are every day many friends and
more than friends who part."

She did not answer him; perhaps she
scarcely heard the few last words, for as he
spoke them his voice had grown very sad and
low, and she was weeping. And then again
they both were silent for a little while, until
she cried with passionate sorrow,

"O Master, must I go? " and clasping
both her hands together, raised her beseeching
eyes up to his face as though it were
possible for her to see what sentence might be
written there.

"No, not against your will," he answered