e for my mother."

Taking the little roll of paper which the boy held in his hand, the
warm-hearted singer lightly hummed the air. Then, turning toward him,
she asked, in amazement: "Did you compose it? you, a child! And the
words, too?" Without waiting for a reply, she added quickly, "Would you
like to come to my concert this evening?" The boy's face became radiant
with delight at the thought of hearing the famous songstress, but a
vision of his sick mother, lying alone in the poor, cheerless room,
flitted across his mind, and he answered, with a choking in his
throat:--

"Oh, yes; I should so love to go, but I couldn't leave my mother."

"I will send somebody to take care of your mother for the evening, and
here is a crown with which you may go and get food and medicine. Here
is also one of my tickets. Come to-night; that will admit you to a seat
near me."

Overcome with joy, the child could scarcely express his gratitude to
the gracious being who seemed to him like an angel from heaven. As he
went out again into the crowded street, he seemed to tread on air. He
bought some fruit and other little delicacies to tempt his mother's
appetite, and while spreading out the feast of good things before her
astonished gaze, with tears in his eyes, he told her of the kindness of
the beautiful lady.

An hour later, tingling with expectation, Pierre set out for the
concert. How like fairyland it all seemed! The color, the dazzling
lights, the flashing gems and glistening silks of the richly dressed
ladies bewildered him. Ah! could it be possible that the great artist
who had been so kind to him would sing his little song before this
brilliant audience? At length she came on the stage, bowing right and
left in answer to the enthusiastic welcome which greeted her appearance.

A pause of expectancy followed. The boy held his breath and gazed
spellbound at the radiant vision on whom all eyes were riveted. The
orchestra struck the first notes of a plaintive melody, and the
glorious voice of the great singer filled the vast hall, as the words
of the sad little song of the child composer floated on the air. It was
so simple, so touching, so full of exquisite pathos, that many were in
tears before it was finished.

And little Pierre? There he sat, scarcely daring to move or breathe,
fearing that the flowers, the lights, the music, should vanish, and he
should wake up to find it all a dream. He was aroused from his trance
by the t