dly, and gave him no
encouragement. No matter, he would go to the city of art. In Paris he
heard Berlioz and other great musicians. Entranced he listened, in his
high seat at the top of the house, to the exquisite notes of Malibran.

His soul feasted on music, but his money was fast dwindling away, and
the body could not be sustained by sweet sounds. But the poor unknown
violinist, who was only another atom in the surging life of the great
city, could earn nothing. He was on the verge of starvation, but he
would not go back to Christiana. He must still struggle and study. He
became ill of brain fever, and was tenderly nursed back to life by the
granddaughter of his kind landlady, pretty little Felicie Villeminot,
who afterward became his wife. He had drained the cup of poverty and
disappointment to the dregs, but the tide was about to turn.

He was invited to play at a concert presided over by the Duke of
Montebello, and this led to other profitable engagements. But the great
opportunity of his life came to him in Bologna. The people had thronged
to the opera house to hear Malibran. She had disappointed them, and
they were in no mood to be lenient to the unknown violinist who had the
temerity to try to fill her place.

He came on the stage. He bowed. He grew pale under the cold gaze of the
thousands of unsympathetic eyes turned upon him. But the touch of his
beloved violin gave him confidence. Lovingly, tenderly, he drew the bow
across the strings. The coldly critical eyes no longer gazed at him.
The unsympathetic audience melted away. He and his violin were one and
alone. In the hands of the great magician the instrument was more than
human. It talked; it laughed; it wept; it controlled the moods of men
as the wind controls the sea.

The audience scarcely breathed. Criticism was disarmed. Malibran was
forgotten. The people were under the spell of the enchanter. Orpheus
had come again. But suddenly the music ceased. The spell was broken.
With a shock the audience returned to earth, and Ole Bull, restored to
consciousness of his whereabouts by the storm of applause which shook
the house, found himself famous forever.

His triumph was complete, but his work was not over, for the price of
fame is ceaseless endeavor. But the turning point had been passed. He
had seized the great opportunity for which his life had been a
preparation, and it had placed him on the roll of the immortals.

THE LESSON OF THE TEAKETTLE