birth, and poverty, and circumstance, that kept him from the heights
of fame. The ballad was ended.

Then a voice fell on Friedrich's ear, which nearly took away his
breath. It was his father's asking sternly, "What is all this?"

And then he knew that Marie was standing up, with a strange emotion on
her face, and he heard her say--

"It is a poem that Friedrich has written. He has written it all
himself. Every word. And he is but twelve years old!" She was pointing
to him, or, perhaps, the Burgomaster might not have recognized in that
huddled miserable figure the genius of the family.

His was the next voice, and what he said Friedrich could hardly
remember; the last sentences only he clearly understood.

"GOD has not blessed me with children, neighbour. My wife, as
well as I, would be ashamed if such genius were lost for want of a
little money. Give the child to me. He shall have a liberal education,
and will be a great man."

"I shall not," said the tradesman, "stand in the way of his interests
or your commands. I cannot tell what to say to your kindness,
Burgomaster. GOD willing, I hope he will be a credit to the town."

"GOD willing, he will be a credit to his country," said the
Burgomaster.

The words rang in Friedrich's ears over and over again, like the