When evening came, and Pierre was admitted to the concert-hall, he felt
that never in his life had he been in so grand a place. The music, the
myriad lights, the beauty, the flashing of diamonds and rustling of silk,
bewildered his eyes and brain.

At last she came, and the child sat with his glance riveted upon her
glorious face. Could he believe that the grand lady, all blazing with
jewels, and whom everybody seemed to worship, would really sing his little
song?

Breathless he waited,--the band, the whole band, struck up a little
plaintive melody; he knew it, and clapped his hands for joy. And oh, how
she sang it! It was so simple, so mournful, so soul-subduing;--many a
bright eye dimmed with tears, and naught could be heard but the touching
words of that little song,--oh, so touching!

Pierre walked home as if he were moving on the air. What cared he for money
now? The greatest singer in all Europe had sung his little song, and
thousands had wept at his grief.

The next day he was frightened at a visit from Madame Malibran. She laid
her hand on his yellow curls, and turning to the sick woman said, "Your
little boy, madam, has brought you a fortune. I was offered, this morning,
by the best publisher in London, three hundred pounds for his little song:
and after he has realized a certain amount from the sale, little Pierre,
here, is to share the profits. Madam, thank God that your son has a gift
from heaven."

The noble-hearted singer and the poor woman wept together. As to Pierre,
always mindful of Him who watches over the tried and tempted, he knelt down