In a humble room, in one of the poorest streets of London, Pierre, a
fatherless French boy, sat humming by the bed-side of his sick mother.
There was no bread in the closet, and for the whole day he had not tasted
food. Yet he sat humming, to keep up his spirits. Still, at times, he
thought of his loneliness and hunger, and he could scarcely keep the tears
from his eyes; for he knew nothing would be so grateful to his poor invalid
mother as a good sweet orange, and yet he had not a penny in the world.

The little song he was singing was his own--one he had composed with air
and words; for the child was a genius.

He went to the window, and looking out saw a man putting up a great bill
with yellow letters, announcing that Madame Malibran would sing that night
in public.

"Oh, if I could only go!" thought little Pierre; and then, pausing a
moment, he clasped his hands; his eyes lighted with a new hope. Running to
the little stand, he smoothed down his yellow curls, and taking from a
little box some old stained paper, gave one eager glance at his mother, who
slept, and ran speedily from the house.

* * * * *

"Who did you say is waiting for me?" said the lady to her servant. "I am
already worn out with company."

"It is only a very pretty little boy, with yellow curls, who says if he can
just see you, he is sure you will not be sorry, and he will not keep you a
moment."