the great establishment of Von Erlangen, in which Otto
worked, got the credit of his labors; but Von Erlangen and Otto
himself knew very well to whom the superior tone of the bells was
due. The master did not pay him higher wages than the others, but by
degrees he grew to be general superintendent in his department in
spite of his extreme youth.

"Yes, my bells are good," he said to a friend one day, who was
commenting upon their merits; "but they do not make the music I will
yet strike from them. They ring alike for all things. To be sure,
when they toll for a funeral the slow measure makes them _seem_
mournful, but then the notes are really the same as in a wedding
peal. I shall make a chime of bells that will sound at will every
chord in the human soul."

"Then wilt thou deal in magic," said his friend, laughing; "and the
Holy Inquisition will have somewhat to do with thee. No human power
can turn a bell into a musical instrument."

"But I can," he answered briefly; "and, Inquisition or not, I will
do it."

He turned abruptly from his friend and sauntered, lost in thought,
down the narrow street which led to his home. It was an humble,
red-tiled cottage, of only two rooms, that he had inherited from his
grandfather. There he lived alone with his widowed mother. She was a
mild, pleasant-faced woman, and her eyes brightened as her son bent
his tall head under the low doorway, as he entered the little room.
"Thou art late, Otto," she said, "and in trouble, too," as she
caught sight of his grave, sad face.

"Yes," he answered. "When I asked Herr Erlangen for an increase of
salary, for my work grows harder every day, he refused it. Nay, he
told me if I was not satisfied, I could leave, for there were fifty
men ready to take my place. Ready! yes, I warrant they're ready
enough, but to be _able_ is a different thing."

His mother sighed deeply.

"Thou wilt not leave Herr Erlangen's, surely. It is little we get,
but it keeps us in food."

"I must leave," he answered. "Nay, do not cry out, mother! I have
other plans, and thou wilt not starve. Monsieur Dayrolles, the rich
Frenchman, who lives in the Linden-Strasse, has often asked me why I
do not set up a foundry of my own. Of course I laughed,--I, who
never have a thaler to spend; but he told me he and several other
rich friends of his would advance the means to start me in business.
He