"Dear Savior, only let me sing once more here in church to you, and I
will think of no one but you; not of the boys who laugh at me, nor the
people who praise me, nor the Cistercians, nor the archduchess, nor
even the dear choir-master, but only of you, of you, and perhaps of
mother and Lenichen. I could not help that, and you would not mind it.
You and they love me so much more than any one, and I love you really
so much more than all besides. Only believe it, and try me once more."

As he finished, in his earnestness, the child spoke quite loud, and
from a dark corner in the shadow of a pillar suddenly arose a very old
man in a black monk's robe, with snow-white hair, and drew close to
him, and laid his hand on his shoulder and said:

"Fear not, my son. I have a message for thee."

At first, Gottlieb was much frightened, and then, when he heard the
kind, tremulous old voice, and saw the lovely, tender smile on the
wrinkled, pallid old face, he thought God must really have sent him an
angel at last, though certainly not because he was good.

"Look around on these lofty arches, and clustered columns, and the long
aisles, and the shrines of saints, and the carved wreaths of flowers
and fruits, and the glorious altar! Are these wonderful to thee?
Couldst thou have thought of them, or built them?"

"I could as easily have made the stars, or the forests!" said the
child.

"Then look at me," the old man said, with a gentle smile on his
venerable face, "a poor worn-out old man, whom no one knows. This