sorrow, and on whose cheeks care had pressed deep furrows. With a
half-pathetic, happy smile he listened to the old familiar melody, which
spoke to his heart like a voice from his own lost youth.

But he was not the only attentive listener. The master of Burgsdorf, who
had fallen asleep amid the thunders of a military march, and who had
felt himself entirely in accord with Tom when she declared music to be
stupid, listened almost breathlessly to the enchanting strains. Such
music was a revelation to him. He sat, leaning forward in his chair, as
if fearful of losing a single note, with his eyes fastened upon the
pretty maiden, who, singing with all her soul, moved her little head
backward and forward with a graceful movement as she warbled forth her
sweet song. When it was ended Willibald leaned back in his chair with a
heavy sigh, and drew his hand across his eyes.

"My little singing bird," said Dr. Volkmar tenderly, as he rose and
leaned over his grandchild and kissed her forehead.

"Well, grandpapa," she said teasingly, "has my voice lost anything
within the last few months? But I fear it does not please Herr von
Eschenhagen. He has no word of commendation for me."

She turned to Willibald with the assumed sulky look of a spoiled child.
He rose now and came over to her.

A slight flush diffused his face, and in his eyes, usually so
expressionless, shone a new light.

"Oh, it was very beautiful!"