but the joy which for a moment had half
broken forth into a cry, was silenced by the
tone in which he spoke, it was so grave and
cold; and while she stood abashed and silent,
he added sorrowfully and reproachfully,
"Your father—your mother, Berthalde, are
they both forgotten?"

"Forgive me, for I did forget! I thought
only of myself," and she sobbed aloud. " Oh,
do not hate me—do not look in anger on me!"

She stretched out both her hands to him;
he took them into his, looking with a deep,
searching pity on her, and with unutterable
melody his rich voice spoke:

"My child, you condemn yourself too much.
I well know there have been few moments in
your life when you have forgotten others in
thoughts of your own self. Be comforted."

"My father! my mother! " she murmured
to herself, in low and tender tones, as though
she sought, by whispering their names, to
strengthen herself for the great sacrifice; and
then again she was quite silent, and they both
stood beside each other, until at last she
raised her head, and with a face quite pale,
like marble, with the long, dark lashes of her
eyes cast down upon her cheek, with
trembling and white lips, she slowly said,

"My Master, I will go."

And then there came suddenly—almost in
the moment that the words were spoken—a
passionate flood of tears.

He spoke no word of comfort; he could
not understand her overwhelming grief; nor
had he any sympathy with it. Many long
solitary years, perhaps, had chilled the feelings
of youth. Perhaps from his calm station he
looked back upon them with a kind of pity,
smiling at the passionate grief and the still
more passionate joy that trifles once could
give him. His passion was his art. And he
was happy in it, perhaps as happy as he wished
to be, for he had forgotten much.

Only when the poor child's wild outburst
of sorrow had partly died away, and the deep
bitter sobs grew hushed, did the Kapell-
meister speak to her.

He spoke to her about her parents; about
their poverty, and the small help which she
had yet been able to give to them; of their
love for her, their pride in her, and the joy
that it would give her to be the comfort and
support of their old age. Her heart answered
to each word, and her tears ceased to fall,
and her resolve grew still more firm that she
would think about herself no more. Then he
spoke of her own future; rejoicing that her
great talent would be no longer hidden; that
she would make a name to herself, and gain
the honour that here she scarcely could have
hoped to gain.

She shook her head, and tried to silence him,
and tears rose in her eyes again,—for what
was fame to her? And when at last he tried
to strengthen her for her departure—telling
her how each day would lessen her regret;
how gradually old memories would fade away;
how the keen sorrow there, though hard to
bear at first, would lose some portion of its
sharpness every hour—she only shook her
head and wept.

"My child, it is growing late. They will
be looking for you at home," said the Kapell-
meister, breaking the silence that had fallen
over them.

She roused herself, and rose hurriedly.

"Yes, I should have gone before—I did not
know how late it was. Master, I have kept
you here much too long. Forgive me: it
was very thoughtless," she said timidly.

"Nay, my child, it was I rather who
detained you," he answered kindly.

She stood before him, her lips trembling,
and her eyelids cast down, as if she wished
to speak, and had not courage. Then she
made a great effort and the words came
out:

"You must not think I am ungrateful.
You have been exceeding kind to me." She
did not weep, but great sobs heaved up her
bosom convulsively.

"All my life's gratitude can never be too
much, can never pay you back all that I owe
you—never! but all my life I will remember
you, and love you; and O, think of me when
I am gone!"

"Yes, I will think of you, my child," the
Kapell-meister said, and even his voice, so
calm at all times, seemed shaken with emotion
now; " I will think of you as of one who
was taken from me in the moment when I
felt that she might become as dear as a
daughter to me." The Kapell-meister stooped
over the kneeling girl, and pressed a cold
calm kiss upon her brow. Then, when a
few moments had passed, with a steady voice
again he gently bade her go; and she rose up,
weeping no more, and, like a child, obeyed
him. Their last words together were of
ordinary things.

"You will be here to-morrow at the usual
time, Berthalde?"

"I will come, Master."

And so they parted.

For many years, in the choir of the court
chapel at Dresden, Berthalde Reimer's voice
had, it was said, so strange a power, that
strong men were moved to tears in hearing
it. Men who had not prayed for years bent
their knees involuntarily, and bowed their
heads, awed by its solemn and unutterable
beauty.

For many years she lived, and sung, and
suffered.  Then she died.

It is very long ago; yet, amongst the
people, many a kind tradition lingers even
now of the blind girl who sang so woudrously;
who, coming a stranger to their town, lived
with them, gentle to all, yet ever sad and
calm, and pensive, until her aged parents
died; then, dying too, as if her work was
done, prayed to be buried far away, in the
country whence she came; and so was laid