heart."

But in the evening Gottlieb came home very sad and desponding. For some
time he said nothing, and then, with a brave effort to restrain his
tears, he murmured:

"Oh, mother! I am afraid it will soon be over. I heard one of the
priests say he thought they had a new chorister at the Cistercians
whose voice is as good as mine. So that the archduchess may not like
our choir best, after all."

The mother said nothing for a moment, and then she said:

"Whose praise and love will the boy at the Cistercian convent sing,
Gottlieb, if he has such a lovely voice?"

"God's!--the dear Heavenly Father and the Savior!" he said, reverently.

"And you, my own? Will another little voice on earth prevent His
hearing you? Do the thousands of thousands always singing to Him above
prevent His hearing you? And what would the world do if the only voice
worth listening to were thine? It cannot be heard beyond one church, or
one street. And the good Lord has ten thousand churches, and cities
full of people who want to hear."

"But thou, mother! Thou and Lenichen, and the bread!"

"It was the raven that brought the bread," she said, smiling; "and thou
art not even a raven,--only a little child to pick up the bread the
raven brought."