ond. A Volkslied came
to her mind, one she had heard as a child and been rocked to, a peasant
song, simple and touching. Her lips parted slightly.

For a moment there was silence; then the tones came like a breath, soft
and pianissimo, clear as the trill of a bird in the forest wooing its
mate. It rose and fell, swelling out, filling the spaces, echoing
through the vault.

"On the mountain-top were two little doves;
Their wings were soft, they shimmered and shone.
Dear little doves, pray a prayer--a prayer
For the son of Fedotjen, Michaeel--Michaeel,
For he is alone--alone."

With the last word, repeated, half whispered, the voice died away
again; and she stood there, still leaning against the piano and
clasping her hands, looking at the Kapellmeister with her blue eyes
dark and pleading, like two wells. "Will it do?" she said with her
voice faltering, "Will you take me, Herr Director--in the chorus?"

The Kapellmeister shrugged his shoulders: "You have no voice for a
chorus," he said roughly, "Try this."

"I know," said Kaya, "My voice is not as it was. Helmanoff--" she
laughed unsteadily, "He would be so angry if he heard me, and tell me
to study, just as you told the Mademoiselle who went out; but I will do
better, Monsieur, believe me. I will work so hard, and my voice will
come back in time after--" She gazed at him and a mist came over her
eyes. "Do take me," she said, "I beg you to take me--I beg you."

The Kapellmeister passed his hand over his face: "Tschut, child!" he
said, "What are you talking about? Be quiet now and sing this as I
tell you. You have heard it before?"

"Yes, I have heard it."

"And sung it perhaps with Helmanoff?"

"Yes--Monsieur."

He handed her the score, running his fingers over the bird motive of
'Siegfried,' giving her the key. Then he leaned back again and folded
his arms.

Kaya gave her head a little backward movement as if to free her throat,
and threw off the cloak, standing straight.

[Illustration: Fragment of "Siegfried"]

The tones came out like the sound of a flute, high and pure; they rose
in her throat, swelling it out as she sang, pouring through the arch of
her lips without effort or strain.

"Bravo!" cried the Director, "Um Himmel's Willen, child, you have a
voice like a lark rising in the meadows, and you sing--Bravo! Bravo!"

He put out his hands and took the girl's trembling ones into his own.

"You will take me?" she said,